


Open For All: The World Was Wide Enough

by JointExisting



Series: The Stories that Make Us: Open For All [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Dark Tony Stark, Gen, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Hurt Harley Keener, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Legacy what is a legacy, Mental Instability, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Protective Steve Rogers, Stephen Strange is Sherlock Holmes, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, it's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JointExisting/pseuds/JointExisting
Summary: They thought they’d had their Endgame, but maybe they were wrong.After all, someone always has to be wrong—to bein thewrong, according to Steve Rogers, a survivor, and Tony Stark, also a survivor. Were either of them wrong? Or was it someone else? Were they both just chasing a damned legacy and stumbling non-stop towards a bloody destiny? Was this world wide enough for the both of them?But it’s not just about them: Stephen Strange can’t sleep. He knows too much.Peter Stark, freshly heralded and paraded as the heir to Stark Industries, can’t sleep. He knows too little.Harley Keener can’t sleep. He knows it’s only a matter of time.At the end of the day death doesn’t discriminate, a sinner can be a saint, history obliterates, and Tony Stark just wants his happy ending without worrying about who lives, who dies and who’ll tell his story.He’ll tell it himself, thank you very much.One last time.//Part of a series - technically - but you do not have to have readOpen For Allto understand this.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Steve Rogers, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Harley Keener, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Stephen Strange & Peter Parker
Series: The Stories that Make Us: Open For All [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704277
Comments: 113
Kudos: 116





	1. History Obliterates

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to **The World Was Wide Enough** ! _*presses applause button*_
> 
> I’m so glad I can finally bring you guys this ! First off, hello readers coming straight from [Open For All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247166/chapters/55664725) ! Here’s your continuation – and hello readers who’ve clicked this for the first time ! While I recommend reading the first fic in this series (as it will help you understand everything leading up to this, and give you more context to Tony and Peter’s behaviour and relationship) I also understand field trip fics aren’t to everyone’s fancy and you might just wanna dive in here, in which case I’ve tried to make this new-reader friendly while providing entertaining call-backs to you guys who’ve followed this from the beginning.
> 
> I’m really looking forward to this fic – I’m drawing from a lot of ideas and sources, and taking a few chances. God, I’m hella excited. I hope you’ll enjoy the journey ! –J

New York City, in Peter’s knowledgeable opinion, was much darker tonight than usual. He leant back in his seat, turning his attention to the blacked-out window as Happy drove at an almost sedate pace through the evening traffic without even slightest merging issue or jostle, keeping to the less busy streets and quieter avenues through the city.

“We aren’t going to be there very long.” Tony sat beside Peter, his body thrown against the sides of the car and one leg crossed haphazardly over the other at the knee, the edge of his shoe touching the middle armrest. His fingers ran across the screen imbedded there, his own modification to the back of _Audi A8_ , nodding along as he configured the last element of whatever he’d been toying with since they’d left the Compound upstate. He pushed it away. “Can you start the model of that, FRI?” he asked into his phone, held in the other hand, waiting for her affirmative before deactivating the screen and slipping his phone into the pocket of the car door and turning his attention on Peter.

Peter turned to him. Despite the darkness pressing in from all sides Tony had been wearing his sunglasses the entire trip, carefully tailoring his expression to be one of constant disinterest whenever he so much as glanced away from his work, dropping little comments here and there but nothing to stimulate prolonged discussion. It reminded Peter of that time – that time so many years ago after Germany. God. What a life he’s led since then...

The odd streetlamp illuminated the inside of the car every-so-often, casting white and yellow light on their best evening wear and making the shadows dance about the Audi in almost rhythmic fashion. Peter snapped out of his reverie when Tony cleared his throat and said, “A couple of drinks, a few large donations, maybe charm a couple of business moguls and—Pete, you listening, bud?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m listening,” Peter replied, not actually listening. He split his attention between looking at the nightlife of New York and glancing in Tony’s direction, only fully diverting his interest away from the outside when he heard one of Tony’s throatier laughs; the one reserved for when he was genuinely happy and his guard was down. Peter didn’t flinch when the weight of Tony’s hand came down on his shoulder, pulling him back from the window as Happy slowed to a stop at some blinking lights, waiting for them to go green.

The grounding pressure of Tony’s palm, warm and worked from years of hard graft with nicks and cuts and white scars on every finger, settled Peter back into the seat. At Tony’s insistent look over the frame of his sunglasses, Peter said, “C’mon, this is the first time I’ve been to New York at night all summer! I miss it,” Peter said in his defence, raising a hand – Tony caught it, roughly rubbed his thumb over the palm, and then set it gently on the rest between them. Peter scrunched up his nose. “It’s not like when I visited Ned last week – look, I think that’s a mugging! Happy! Do we have time-”

“No,” Happy replied from the front, pressing his foot down.

“We just gotta get through this charity fundraiser, Pete,” said Tony, shaking his head. He hooked a finger over his sunglasses and removed them, collapsing the frame to settle them in his lap. “We’ll crash at the Tower after, all right? If you’re up for it, you could get a few hours of Spider-Manning in—Hang on, I love that face; lemme get a picture for Pep.” Dropping a hand into his pocket, Tony grabbed out his phone and took the photo effortlessly. He whistled. “I’m putting this on Twitter. The world needs your face.”

Peter fell against the black seats of the car, crossing his ankles and his arms instinctively. He turned his head a little to look back out into the night, but not even the flinch of crime seemed to be showing itself in Midtown since whatever that had been earlier. Pursing his lips, Peter exclaimed, “Dad.” He waited a second, and then smiled at the inevitable fumbling Tony still experienced at the word when he clocked it being directed at him, despite the months Peter had spent gradually working his way up to using it more often than his name, now. The thought he’d _ever_ called him Mr. Stark – after discovering their biological relationship – still made Peter come out all sorts of pink from embarrassment.

“Wha-what is it, kid?” Tony asked, putting his phone on his thigh to give Peter his full attention. Suddenly, before Peter had a chance to ask his question, Tony interrupted with a gasp of, “Oh, lordy! I nearly forgot.” He turned away, his phone falling on to the floor (Peter picked it up and put it carefully on top of the rest, the Twitter app still up and the post already gaining likes and comments and retweets), and started digging through his coat pockets – the inside ones – for something. He let out a faint “ _yay!_ ” when he found whatever it was he was looking so intently for and slid a small, slim box out from his pocket. “Here ya go, Pete – birthday present.”

“Birthday—Tony, my birthday’s not for another few days,” Peter replied as the box was practically shoved into his waiting hands. Peter rolled it between his fingers, raising his eyes to see Happy was watching from the front in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, but I thought you could use these now – go on; open them.” Tony flopped his wrist back and forth at the box.

Slowly, Peter turned the box in his hands and, with casual realisation, noted they were most definitely glasses. How he hadn’t seen before he could only put down to the lined lighting they were passing through, distorting his vision. On the top of the case (not a box; glasses didn’t come in a box), _STARK INDUSTRIES_ had been stamped in off-white print, with the company’s slashed logo effect. Peter pressed against the sides and edges and, taking a second to steel his nerves, opened the case to reveal the glasses.

“Wow,” Peter mumbled, staring at the black-shaded sunglasses he was presented with. Using careful fingers, Peter picked them up and looked at the silvery frame; intricate patterns weaving along the sides. They were, honestly, huge, which he tried not to baulk at too much. They would definitely do to cover his eyes in full. “I haven’t worn glasses – even sunglasses – since after the bite—wow, these look _amazing_.”

“I wanted to make the pattern a web, but the media have been getting a bit too observant lately – especially when it concerns Spider-Man.” Tony pressed his lips into a line, repositioning himself against the side of the car. “And you, of course, Pete. God—they can’t get enough you.”

“Wai—Wait. _You_ made these?” Peter raised his eyebrows, mouth dropping open.

Tony gave a considerate nod. “On the nose, kid. Yeah, I made ‘em – I make my own pairs, too.” He tapped the side of his sunglasses. “Go on, kid, try them on – you’ll definitely look better in them than Hap did.”

The divider between the passenger seats and the driver went up at that and Tony barked out some canned laughter before turning back to Peter and gesturing. “C’mon, kiddo.”

“OK. O-OK.” Peter breathed out, nodded and slowly lifted the glasses to settle over his eyes, tinting his world in greyscale. He waited a few moments, looking around the car, and then blinked in surprise. “They don’t do anything? What?” Peter said, confusion masking the fascination in his tone.

“You expected them to do something?” Tony asked, mock disbelief stuttering into his voice. He slung an arm around Peter, pulling him closer to adjust the glasses from his awkward position over the armrest. “They do do something, kid; they’re a _crowd deterrent_.”

Peter blinked a few times behind the shades, giving a blasé nod. “Oh. I get it – like yours.”

“Well,” Tony replied immediately, moving away. “Mine... Mine do sometimes do something.” He angled his mouth into a side-frown and pushed his own sunglasses back on.

“Don’t tell me this is another _training wheels protocol_ thing,” Peter replied, a bit of bite in his tone. He considered the increased darkness around him, the freckling of light from the outside easing the effect of the shades momentarily before sending him straight back into the blackness. Drawing in a breath, Peter leant towards the window again and peered out at the streets.

Had New York always been this dark? Had the streets always seemed so quiet? Why hadn’t he noticed before now? Had all the time spent upstate made him forget _this_?

Tony’s rich chuckle broke Peter out of his trance and he turned slightly, blinkered, to stare at him. “It’s not. It’s not a test or anything like that, OK; they’re just to give you some privacy,” Tony confirmed, though he wouldn’t look at Peter when he said it. “Anyway, Pete; let’s talk about how this thing is goin’ to go, all right? When we get there...”

Peter tuned out, his mind recalling the explicit conversations they’d had over the last two weeks relating to this damn fundraiser. Tony would venture to remind him of the etiquette required at the event at any given opportunity, even though Peter had long-since understood the demand of keeping a good facade and directing any incriminating questions off of his person – especially when involving the press and their pressures for him to fit in whatever neat box they wanted him to inhabit.

Stirred by the shallows of his consciousness, Peter sat back into the seat and pretended to listen to his dad all while his mind reeled back over the events leading to this moment.

Which started, as it would, with a field trip. Well, that’s the short version. It technically started with an explosion – which is difficult to agree upon as a good vs. bad argument, merits-wise, as good things can come from explosions, but so can very bad things. Peter, while implying neither openly, thought his life was about as close to a combination as possible. Of course, actually, it could also be argued everything really – exactly – absolutely – started with the bite—and it could further be argued, though Peter found it embarrassing to do so, it all started with his conception.

But going back _that_ far would be redundant and take ages, so—

A year or so ago, Peter found out his biological father was one Tony Stark – genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. MIT-trained, PhD-holding scientist and engineer.

Iron Man.

Correction—Peter discovered he’d been _lied to_ for almost eighteen years of his life and he had never really been a –Parker. In fact, he’d been born a Fitzpatrick and it was only after Mary (who was his biological mother, at least) and her husband Richard Parker (who Peter thought had been his father) died under mysterious circumstances Peter had been remade into a –Parker when Uncle Ben and Aunt May fought for custody of him and gained guardianship – after which they’d quickly, cleanly, tidily changed his name almost completely. Though Peter had since forgiven them – helped in part by a letter May had written him before her untimely death – he still found it difficult to come to terms with the idea they’d taken away such a huge part of his identity at such a young, impressionable age.

After much deliberating, tantrums and a total re-understanding of himself, Peter had taken back a little part of his first name—and given himself to something much bigger. Stark. This had, in a fundamental sense, always been part of him. His first name, he’d discovered, had been _Peter Anthony Fitzpatrick_ , before May and Ben had changed it to _Peter Benjamin Parker_.

Which Peter had lastly changed to _Peter Anthony Benjamin Stark_. It felt good; right – especially when he was about to head to university and the world’s press knew his face better than his own mother had probably known it.

The previously mentioned explosion, endured by both Tony and Peter in the lab one day, had caused Doctor Cho and her team (then residing in the Tower for a brief period of time) to take blood in case of poisoning from the debris, and FRIDAY, being FRIDAY, noticed too much of a similarity between them to be logical for her systems. She immediately notified Bruce, who tested the samples himself before concluding the parental match FRIDAY had shown him was correct, and then a domino effect occurred of Bruce telling Tony who told Peter (and Pepper) who told May who, two weeks later, died from a pre-existing condition. The domino effect, technically, continued after that with people like the Avengers, Dr. Strange, and Ned, and MJ, but... that’s not really important currently. Point is: everyone they trusted got told about it within a week or so.

Peter’s life, as he came to discover in a small church in Italy as May’s ashes were laid in an unmarked grave, could be measured in candles. Snuffed, melted, and broken. With every life, every person he knew, Peter came to an understanding each was burning bright for a time, and then they would perish. The idea filled him with an obtuse amendment to his creed: with great power comes great responsibility and with that comes great sacrifice.

For some unholy reason this damned world wanted him alive. Peter was determined to see why.

Where was he? Oh. Yeah. The bite. The bite happened – it happened long before everything he’d just considered though. It happened six months before he first met Tony, back when Peter would have laughed had anyone said they were related, when he’d been handpicked out of a pool of fourteen other kids to work a week in Oscorp. Everything had been, dare he say, _boring_ until Sunday, his last day, when he’d only meant to be going into reception to hand over his badge and get his performance report for school—back when the government decided kids should see the workings of a place by being in it for a week’s placement and then have a higher up write some nice words about them to see if they’d make a career out of anything. Peter had been excited as, earlier that week, Norman Osborn himself had taken an interest in his mumblings to a head scientist and mentioned he would compile the report himself after roughly ruffling up Peter’s hair and striding away.

Peter had gone to reception and, almost immediately, been told he had to fetch the report from Mr. Osborn himself. Happy to grab a last look at the impressive insides of Oscorp (although Stark Industries had been, even back then to a lil’ Peter, way more interesting, Peter still thought Oscorp was a step up from Hammer Industries—where most of his classmates had placed), Peter had slipped through the dark sectors of the then-familiar building looking for Mr. Osborn’s office.

Here’s where it gets interesting: He hadn’t expected to run into them – two hulking men – one in a white suit and the other whose skin was as clear and thin as cheap printer paper. Peter, being of a curious nature, had stumbled into one of the labs near Osborn’s office after hearing the quiet, but determined voices from inside. Immediately, he’d shouted for security who never actually turned up—but Osborn did, taking to leaning casually against the doorframe with the report in one hand as the big man in the white suit had taken Peter by the neck and held him off the floor.  
A bored expression, one of minuscule concern, highlighted the chilling dark of Osborn’s eyes as he’d tutted and asked why Peter _had to do this, why he couldn’t have just walked by and pretended not to hear anything_.

“ _Now we’ll have to punish you, pet_.” Peter coarsely shivered at the bodiless voice of Osborn’s in his ear; still there, sticking, familiar and clawing at him. The spider’s bite wasn’t the worst part—nor was the threat of death hanging over him as he’d convulsed—and nor was the fact he could have and should have saved Uncle Ben’s life a few weeks after.

The worst part was he’d never told anyone the full story of that day after staggering home, sick, drenched, clenching his report. Although he’d mentioned to Tony about the spider and its creation, and there had been some justice in Osborn being done for illegal experimentation (which he’d gotten off of, thanks to a couple of very old, very outdated clauses), Peter had never told Tony the full extent of that Sunday. He wasn’t sure he ever would. He’d spent months, on-and-off, tracking down Kingpin and Tombstone—but he’d never gotten close enough to make a dent in their armoured lives.

A blessing and a curse, really. They probably thought he died – Osborn likely did, too—he’d only known Peter’s name, and his face – his face back when he’d had glasses, been nearly struck blind at birth thanks to idiot doctors – and Peter had changed a lot since then. Would he have made the connection? That Peter Parker-Stark (his first attempt at a name) was the Peter Parker he’d unwittingly let some asshole mobsters experiment on and laughed at before chucking him under a company shower – clothed – to sober Peter up enough to go home (where he could die quietly, was likely the plan).

Plans never work out like that, though. Pity.

So... Name – done. Bio-dad!Tony Stark discovery – done. Overly complicated and tragic backstory – also done. What was left...? Peter blinked awake, realising he’d managed to drift off in the last five minutes – imagining easily the torment he’d suffered in fantastical detail. He quickly straightened up in his seat, nodding at something Tony was repeating – counting something out on his fingers – before his head slipped away into the most recent ordeal of his life.

That damned field trip.

He’d had a lot of shit happen to him on field trips – from getting shoved into a lake, to nearly collapsing from an asthma attack at an ice rink, to getting outed as Tony Stark’s son by the Secretary of Education while on said field trip to his own home – The Tower (re-bought by Tony during the financial crash following the Snap – which is another _whole thing_ Peter might procrastinate about later, probably) – where none of his classmates had even believed he was an intern, no less the son of the owner of one of the biggest technological companies in the world, and Peter had been forced by a tricky little thing called the _Open For All Initiative_ to take part in the humiliating guided tour of the labs and such.

Which, he’d never actually finished thanks to the previously-mentioned Education Secretary – Maria Rosendale – who SI was successfully suing for breaching and violating an NDA and exposing a minor to world-wide celebrity. It had been a whole thing, and Peter would much rather not think too long on it, frankly. OFA was currently being dragged through the mud thanks to Rosendale’s suspension and subsequent dismissal from the Republican Party. No kid was going to have to go through it again—instead, Stark Industries was championing a new, less costly September Foundation-like initiative which would see companies and other places of interest open their doors to interactive field trips not just from approved schools but from a wide arrangement of organisations including adult learner groups and charities.

It was going to be great, Tony assured Peter.

So, that seemed a pretty up-to-date explanation of his life – discounting the Snap and the Blip and Harley Keener’s disappearance.

The last of which, Peter felt strongly, was his fault.

It had happened during the aforementioned field trip, when Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson had chosen the wrong time to say a few choice things and Harley, being the protector he’d always been, went up against him and, could be argued, won—except Peter, being the person he was, didn’t let Harley strike the killing blow and ruin Flash’s life and career prospects. He couldn’t, despite having put up with Flash’s bullying tirade for years.  
Harley took offence (of course he did; he was right to do so) and left in a huff, telling Peter in no uncertain terms he “ _really was a Stark_ ,” and implying Harley Keener was definitely _not_ one. Which, in blood terms, he wasn’t—but the emotional connection, the water between them...

Peter coughed to clear his throat, choked up. Dragging himself out of the quagmire of his head, Peter returned his attention to Tony who was winding down his chat just as the lightshow appeared ahead of them. Press vehicles started to pile up around the street and Happy dodged a practically large camera crew from _The Daily Bugle_ taking up half of the available road.

“Hey, Hap.” Tony undid his seatbelt and rapped his knuckles against the divider. It slid down immediately. “You going to park up and come in? I know you miss being my security guy – asset management’s never been so boring, right?”

“Actually, I enjoy it,” Happy replied nonchalantly. “Nothing talks back to me when I drop it.”

“Steady.” Tony’s eyebrows raised above the frame of his sunglasses. “Are you coming in, then? They have the little pizzas you like.”

“Diet,” Happy replied immediately, raising a wrist to wiggle his medical bracelet. “I’ve got some reading to catch up with, so I’m goin’ to pass and let you both deal with any trouble you cause yourselves.”

“Hey!” Tony huffed, and Happy let out a resounding laugh. Sitting back into the seat, Tony looked at Peter with more amusement then he’d shown in the last few days. “Ready, Pete?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Tony replied, tipping his head down to look over his glasses at him.

Peter couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he shook his head and said, “Not a word, dad.”

“Atta boy,” Tony sighed, pushing his glasses back up his nose as the car slowed to a stop in front of the reddish carpet – not full-on red, but—or, well, maybe it was; the sunglasses made it a little difficult to tell.  
Peter considered pulling them off, but the windows were blacked out too, so – so everything was a bit redundant right now. A moment passed of them sitting in the pushed silence, the press outside clamouring around the car in wait like dogs outside a rabbit cage, and Peter looked at Tony for his cue.

“Ready?” Tony asked again, curling his fingers around the door’s handle. He looked across to Peter, all serious, waiting.

Sucking in a breath, Peter said, “Yes. I’m ready.”

Instantly, Tony opened the car door and stepped out, calling out a loud and wild ‘ _Hello!_ ’ which only Tony Stark could muster in a way which didn’t sound like he was scraping the bottom of the barrel for enthusiasm for the press. Peter flinched as he made to get out, seeing the flash of a camera from the corner of his eye, and silently making a reminder to thank Tony better than he had for the glasses and their dimming effect when it barely caused him to pause. Sliding across the seats, Peter stepped out from the car and straight into Tony’s arm as it slung mindlessly around his shoulders and pulled him into his side for protection and comfort, fingers squeezing his upper arm.

Peter relaxed, just, but kept his guard up; he’d been briefed earlier by Pepper as to what he could and couldn’t say, and he’d handled the press a lot since the conference incident (which he really didn’t need to be reminded of right now). He knew them – some of them he actually recognised, now – and he understood what they were looking for; how they wanted him to act as they snapped their pictures and how all he could do was stand there, chin up, and palm out to his father, directing most questions and comments to him with frantic ease. There were, however, some he definitely couldn’t get out of though:

“Peter! Peter! How’s life as a Stark?”  
“Peter! Tony! Over here! Can we grab a picture of you both for _Globe_?”  
“Peter Stark! This is your first official fundraiser with your father – how excited are you?”  
“Peter! Are you looking forward to inheriting Stark Industries? Can we get a comment for our article, please?”  
“Peter, Tony! Are those _matching_ sunglasses? Like father, like son?”

Holy shit. How could he have forgotten how nuts these reporters get? Was a few months at the Compound really enough to make him forget all about that and think he had it sorted with simulated attempts and small gatherings? Peter fixed the sunglasses, torn between smiling too widely and not smiling enough, as Tony led them down the carpet and towards the large, imposing building ahead of them. A few more photos were snapped as security pushed open the doors and Tony’s hand gently fanned over Peter’s shoulder to get him inside first.

“Vultures,” Tony muttered, slipping his sunglasses off to rub circles in his eyes. With a shake of the head, Tony gestured for them to continue onwards into the grand hall, where anyone who’s anyone in New York would be tonight.

Peter raised his head and downed the sunglasses, hanging them from his pocket as a few people paused to welcome them and a server approached quickly to offer them drinks. “Orange juice for the kid,” Tony said, pushing away the offered alcohol. “Water for me.” The server returned quickly with their orders, nearly tripping over their feet to hand them over.

“Thank you,” Peter said, taking it. He raised his eyes to the rest of the room, the odd sponsorship banner holding steady along the wall with such-and-such company name written across it in formal type. People of all colours and creeds stood here and there, chatting amusedly and solemnly, quietly and loudly. It took Peter a moment to realise Tony was saying something. “Huh? Wha? Sorry, I-I didn’t get any of that.”

“I was just saying I have to go and make our first contribution,” said Tony, patting Peter’s shoulder. He downed the last of his water, handing it off to a nearby server to dispose of the used glass. “Why don’t you mingle for a bit, Pete? I’ll come and find you after I’ve taken care of the polite shit, OK? You’ve got your earbuds right, bud?”

Peter nodded; dropping a hand into his pocket to remove the Stark-branded earbuds nestled in their protective little box. Not only did they reduce noise, they also served as a connection to Karen and, even though Peter had his very smart smartwatch for on-the-go conversation, the earbuds could also sync with Tony’s phone since the older Stark’s latest upgrade. Luckily, this allowed Tony to say anything to Peter from a distance—if something kicked off, he didn’t need to shout for Peter to get his ass gone from somewhere and they could keep their interactions almost entirely separate yet still converse on the side. It was still in the testing phase, but it was doubtless going to be very helpful on missions if their comms ever went down.

“Great.” Tony squeezed his shoulder once and then turned away. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, bambino.”

“Sure,” Peter replied, shaking his head. A fond glint settled in his eye, watching his father smoothly transition into his role as _The_ Tony Stark. He did not so much as fumble when offering his hand to anyone, and Peter watched with gloried fixation, wondering when (if) he’d ever feel the same security in himself to be so cool with the wealth of the Stark name and all it entailed.

Deciding to mingle a bit, practice, Peter slinked through the crowds towards the food tables laid out as a buffet. He grabbed a plate and filled it carefully, thinking back to Pepper reminding him small bites throughout the night would look better than a huge plateful. Small bites and no one would notice. Small bites and it would even make sense for Peter to keep heading back, trying things—lots of stuff to try.

Even though Pepper Potts had a lot to do nowadays, she still found time to talk to Peter about all things wealthy and expected of him despite running the company and handling Morgan—Peter’s baby half-sister, though he’d gotten used to just thinking of her as ‘sister’ anyway with how often Pepper remarked on their similarities, in spite of Morgan still being a tiny baby who needed cuddling every minute Peter had spare.

 _Harley would love her_ , Peter thought – not for the first time – and it depressed his mood a fair bit as he took his plate away from the table to listen in on random conversations. He adjusted the earbuds slightly, to block the majority of the noise around him, and found a quiet area by the wall with only an old lady for company. She sooner left, complaining of an empty glass, and Peter realised the off-smell of Tequila was actually her. All right, then.

“Peter!”

Peter looked up immediately; the voice was almost completely alien to him, but he’d have recognised the intention behind it anywhere. He searched out the people around him, and then his eyes fell on a young man – probably his age – moving at speed through the crowds. Unlike Peter’s dancing steps, this boy’s movements were already stiff with the wealth of his young years partaking in the pedant pageantry surrounding them.

“Uh, hello?” Peter replied when the other got closer—a long, slim face framed his dark, sparking eyes. His hair, tighter than Peter’s own curls, was cut short to the head and had the shininess of too much gel applied to the front. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the boy replied, waving his palms, his smile that of a ghost’s for how quickly it vanished from his clean expression. “I’m sorry I jumped the gun – it’s just I’ve seen your face so much recently on the television—and I knew it was you immediately. I was really hoping we’d meet here – it’s so nice to finally have someone my own age and intelligence.” He held out his hand, but retracted it almost immediately. “Enjoying the fundraiser?”

 _I’ve never heard someone talk so frantically._ Peter shrugged, placing his plate on the nearby chair the old lady had occupied. “It is nice to see someone who might have actually heard of _Star Wars_ ,” he remarked kindly, and the boy sent Peter a wider grin than before; but, much like the first smile, it was gone in an instant and replaced by a cool facade.

It’s a moment, a second-there thing, but Peter can’t help the shiver as his Spidey Sense triggered an almighty _pulse_ in the back of his head. This kid... He knew him from – somewhere. Definitely. He wasn’t just familiar to Peter, but a well-worn, well-known face in this high-speed, highlife world Peter was firmly stepping into. If only—

“You like _Star Wars_?” asked the boy a second belated, his eyes roaming over Peter’s face. “My Dad thinks it’s a waste of my brain to watch the movies—I don’t have any game consoles—and he took away my books last month when I broke a vase.” His eye twitched. “Apparently it was worth, like, twelve thousand dollars, but it looked like a cheap Chinese knockoff to me.” His hands fumbled with his jacket, drawing it nearer to him, smoothing it out.

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Wow. That’s—that’s harsh. Me and Tony – uh, Dad – we marathoned the original series in the lab last week—I mean, that-that’s probably not what you want to hear...”

“Tony Stark’s a nerd?” the boy replied immediately, his eyes lit with interest. “Wow. Sounds... great! My dad, when he’s working, just puts on the news – or a documentary.” Squirming where he stood, fidgeting with the tips of his fingers – suddenly looking totally unconfident – the boy added, “I... I’m not really allowed to change the channel, so...” He shrugged.

“Oh...” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, the pulse still sitting there – pushing at him, at his boundaries, trying to attest to his attention—trying to direct it, put it somewhere. His eyes skimmed the silhouettes around them, the dark bodies pressing through the auditorium, but he came straight back to looking at the now-nervous boy—like he’d said far too much and the regret was hitting everything at once. Wild ride. “I watch documentaries, too,” Peter said, lamely, but it perked the other up instantly—suddenly, they had something in common other than being rich kids. Peter stumbled over his head to find something – a point where Tony had been ridicules that he could share...

 _Ah_.

“The worst thing I’ve ever had to do was count out three thousand British pennies,” said Peter suddenly, recapturing the other boy’s attention as it strayed to a rowdy conversation to their left. “And then I had to work out the conversation rate of that into American dollars – but only after I’d confirmed there were definitely three thousand pennies. I counted them, like, three times.” It sounded like a joke, but it really wasn’t; Tony had told him to do it one evening (and subsequently, the next day) due to an unfortunate accident involving a stack of Clint’s latest batch of test arrows. Peter still protested his innocence. “They’re still in my room, actually.”

“Wow,” the boy gapped, shutting his mouth quickly. “I mean – that’s... That sounds...” He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Torture...”

Peter worked himself into a real smile. “Oh, it really wa-” His Spidey Sense gave a sudden and breath-taking buzz—like someone had slapped him upside the head—and he snapped around to stare, openly, an expression of horror dragging on to his face, as _Norman Osborn_ strode purposefully towards them, an arm raised in greeting – and big fat fake smirk taking up much of his paper-thin face.

Turning his head slightly, seeing the boy beside him raise a hand in response, it struck Peter instantly and painfully why he was familiar—why he knew his face—why he’d seen him before, and it wasn’t because – like Peter – he was always on the television; the opposite, really. _Harry Osborn_ was not an interesting person to the press at large, nor did he have anything like the celebrity of his father. In the eyes of the world, he was a kid who’d gotten lucky to be born into an affluent family. He didn’t have the ‘from nothing’ story Peter did, or the charm of the Stark Family, or the—AH. SHIT.

 _Harry Osborn_. Shit. How couldn’t he have noticed sooner?

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

Peter swallowed down the anxiety, but all it proved to do was tie his stomach up in knots. “Uh,” he started, momentarily grabbing Harry’s attention. “Uh, I should-”

“Harry! I see – this is where you ran off to, hm? You actually found him,” said Osborn as he appeared, lithe and horse-faced, with a hard brow. The contempt sitting in his eyes pressed into his words as he held out a hand to Peter and said, “Norman Osborn of Oscorp. Nice to meet you – I see you’ve met my son. Are you having an enjoyable time?” He retracted his hand quickly, before Peter could shake it, like Harry had.

Harry tried to reply before Peter—a fatal thing to do; “I’m having a really nice ti-”

“I was asking the Stark kid, Harry!” Osborn interrupted with a grunt, flicking his fingers at his son. “God. So needy,” he muttered beneath his breath, and Peter tried very hard not to baulk; his mouth ballooned, as if to hold a frog, and he stared with a mixture of horror and sudden, unnerving impatience.

“I,” said Peter, working up his courage. “I... I’m having an OK time, sir.” Did Osborn remember him? Had he connected the dots? Was that why he was here? Peter tried hard not to meet the older man’s eyes as they skated across him, looked him up and down. He licked his lips and pressed them back into a complicated frown; a confused glint flickering to life in his eyes.

_Shitshitshitshit he remembers me oh shitshitshi—_

Peter gasped and flinched when an arm slung around his shoulder, turning in haste to see Tony had arrived at his side just in time. His stare, unusually cold, centred strongly on the Osborns as he said, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Norman Osborn. Did you pay your way in here, Norm? Or come in through the backdoor?”

“Mr. Stark.” Osborn raised his eyes from Peter to stare fixedly at Tony’s face; he forged a smile, which Tony returned in full, gleaming fakery. “What a pleasure.”

“Wish I could say it was mutual.” Tony turned his head in the other direction.

Peter watched as Osborn’s face contorted into a grimace and he reached out to yank Harry towards him, recreating the picture Peter and Tony painted—but the truth behind theirs was different. Peter could see the unhindered admiration in Harry’s eyes, staring at his father and the put-on show of love he was giving, watched as Harry curled his fingers in his father’s jacket and held on like a child needing comfort.

“For your information, Stark,” said Osborn calmly, using one hand to constantly detangle Harry’s fingers, loosening his grip easily. “Oscorp is sponsoring the fundraiser this year.”

“Yikes,” Tony replied, raising his eyebrows. “Next you’ll tell me Hammer Industries is sponsoring, too.”

“No.”

“Thank goodness – one egotistical maniac making demands is enough—was that your idea, Osborn? The chocolate fountain? _Lordy_.”

Osborn’s face darkened considerably and he opened his mouth to reply, but a voice from the crowd was calling him – telling him it was time for him to speak, or that he was needed, or _something_. Peter breathed a faint, calculated sigh of relief when the man put on his smile and raised his hand in acknowledgement. “Ah, time and tide, Mr. Stark,” said Osborn without responding to Tony’s criticism, eyeing Peter once more before he started to walk away with the same inelegance as Harry shared.

After a second of waiting, Harry gave Peter a faint smile and then hurried off after his father.

Father and son stood together in fractured silence and watched them leave. When the tail of Harry’s coat vanished behind the pompous dress of a rather large woman, Peter heard Tony suck in a terse breath and, from the corner of his eye, he saw him start shaking his head. “Poor kid,” Tony said, and then continued on immediately. “Peter. I can’t stop you from making stupid decisions, but do your old man a favour and _don’t_ try to be Harry Osborn’s friend.”

Looking at Tony with his eyes before manually turning his head towards him, Peter responded, “Uh, I’m not – I’m not going to try to be anyone’s friend, Tony. I have enough friends.”

“You say that now,” Tony replied, tensing and untensing his fingers in the sleeve of Peter’s coat like one would squeeze a stress ball. “But Pete, I’m serious: the Osborns are bad news—I don’t need to tell you that, do I? You understand—they’re _bad people_ , son.”

Peter chuckled, watching the confliction in Tony’s expression double. “I know. Don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry,” Tony told him in a strict and unyielding voice. When Peter finally nodded in understanding, Tony deflated and cleared his throat, raising an open palm towards the buffet and changing the subject, “Have you eaten, Pete? Balanced your blood sugars? Ah, thought not. Speaking of blood, I almost completely forgot why I came to find you—your _godfather_ is here, and it would be very impolite if you didn’t come and say hello.”

“Dr. Strange is here?” Peter asked, turning on the spot to look for the familiar robes—but a moment later Peter spotted him wearing a tailored suit, hands thumbing along the edges clumsily as he chatted to an older man with an impressive beard and sideburn combo.

“That’s right,” Tony replied, safe in the knowledge Peter’s enhanced senses had already picked out the Neurosurgeon. “C’mon, Pete; time to go say hello.” Giving the boy a gentle push along his shoulder blades, Tony started walking them through the crowd.

As they drew closer, the frayed emotion from Peter’s conversation with the Osborns fell away and he felt his heart flit about his chest with happiness. “Dr. Strange!” he called, catching the man’s already centred attention. He raised a hand, politely leaving his conversation with who Peter thought was a Governor, and started walking towards them.

“I asked Tony whether his ward was here, but I should have guessed from your _entourage_ of press outside,” said Dr. Strange when he got close enough, moving to hide his shaking hands in his pockets. He nodded his head at Tony, but directed his voice at Peter as he added, “He said you’d grown up in the last few months and taken off on a voyage across Europe—so might I say it’s quite nice of you to ditch it and come and see me.”

“I wouldn’t miss seeing you, Dr. Strange,” Peter replied, returning the Wizard’s gentle smile with a grin. “I can’t wait to come back to New York again and be able to visit the Sanctum for the first time.”

Raising his eyebrows, Dr. Strange cast Tony a quiet look before leaning close to Peter. “You’ll have to renounce science and take up magic—Have to learn how to use a sling-ring and-”

“Steady there, boy wizard,” Tony interrupted, huffling as he tightened his arm around Peter. “You’ll start making me regret not taking _Clint_ up on his offer of being Peter’s godfather at this rate.”

Standing to his full, striking height, Dr. Strange replied, “We know Bruce and Rhodey were your first choices, Stark—unfortunately, I just happened to be someone else’s first choice.” His clever expression transformed into one of patience, comfortable in his slackened demeanour as he bowed forwards to ruffle a hand awkwardly, clumsily, through Peter’s fringe. “And how it is being a big brother?”

“It’s great!” Peter replied, not minding the shake of Dr. Strange’s fingers through his hair. “I mean, she doesn’t do much yet, but...”

“And how’s being a big father?” Dr. Strange teased, moving his attention to Tony. He reached forwards, and Tony leant away with a pointed, pinched expression.

Knocking the shivering hand away, Tony replied offhandedly, “I dunno, doc, I think I should see someone about the greying of my hair—it’s sped up over the last month and a bit.”

Peter settled between them, listening as Strange fired back another biting joke which soon had Tony in a fit of chuckles. Tony didn’t often laugh like that at the Compound—not around other people, anyway. It was nice, hearing his dad relax and take a breather from the persistent tension at ‘home’, where the Avengers every hour of every day still saw fit to find issue with anything Tony was doing—despite him doing all he could for everyone.

Since Harley’s disappearance, the underlying stress of everything had been just that – underlying. A couple of blowouts, a few tantrums, but nothing which couldn’t be solved with a couple of hours tucked away in different corners of the Tower. But now everyone seemed to be practically gagging for some conflict, for some reason to get angry—especially at Tony. Peter hated it – hated hearing the exhaustion in everyone’s voices when they spoke to his dad, when they used his given name (Steve had been guilty of this for years, but now Peter was beginning to hear it from everyone else, too). Nothing Tony did was enough—particularly when it came to Harley.

The low and blow of it all was, without Harley’s tracker being active in his phone (and Harley’s phone being an older model of StarkPhone, one he’d modified himself), Tony couldn’t find him despite whatever the high and mighty Steve Rogers thought and how much he pushed at Tony to _try harder_. Although Peter had quietly asked once or twice, and Tony had mentioned there _was_ another way, it was also incredibly invasive and might not even work. If Harley had been kidnapped – which was the theory, and how they’d reported him missing to the authorities – it could work against them to trigger the other way Tony had talked about, and then they might hurt Harley.

Harley could already be hurt, but... They had to find some sort of bright side—after all, Harley was Harley. Harley was strong. Harley never let anyone mess with him.

 _Ugh_. Peter raised a hand to his head as his Spidey Sense snapped at him and he flicked his eyes away from Tony and Strange to look around the rest of the room—spotting Harry Osborn to one side, standing at the corner of his father, looking straight at Peter as Norman Osborn partook in a biting conversation with a nimble-looking man – an investor, in all likelihood, who had his hands out in a placating manner. A moment later, Norman slapped them to one side and strode off into the roving crowd. Harry, giving one last look in Peter’s direction, followed.

God. Never had Peter wanted to throw himself backwards and slam his head back against the floor more than right now.

“You all right, Pete?” Tony interrupted whatever Dr. Strange had been saying, turning his attention on his son. A second, a glance in the other man’s direction, and then Tony asked Peter, “Is your headache back? Do you need to sit down?”

“Uh – no. No. I, I’m fine,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “I... I’m just – hungry?”

Dr. Strange gave a considered nod, the doctor in him becoming more evident by each passing breath. “When did you last eat? Your metabolism...”

“Yeah, let’s grab you some chow, kid.” Tony fit his hand into the crook of Peter’s neck, taking a protective hold and leaning close. “I gotta chat to the magician a little longer, OK? Another donation or two, as well—and then we’ll get going to the Tower. Can you last that long?”

Peter sucked in a breath and gave a quick nod. “Ye-yeah—can I text Ned a bit? I know you said no phones...”

Tony’s lips twitched upwards into a smile. “I get my phone out at these things all the time. Don’t worry about it.” Moving them towards the buffet, Tony amended his words and said, “Mind helping Stephen with a plate before it, though?”

“No problem,” Peter replied, taking in a slow breath as he grabbed a plate. “No problem, dad.”

+

The fundraiser went on a little longer for Peter than he could rightly cope with, especially after the emotional rollercoaster from earlier involving the Osborns. He’d practically tacked himself to Tony’s side then and there, with Strange sticking with them the entire rest of the night, too, and watched and listened as his Spidey Sense triggered multiple times through the night, warning him constantly whenever Norman got within ten feet. Once, when they’d walked past them and Harry had given Peter a polite half-smile, he’d had to make a dash for the bathroom and his ‘little bites’ through the evening made a rather disgusting reappearance.

They left soon after that, Tony’s hand nervously fidgeting from Peter’s head to his shoulder as excuses were made and a sizable donation left. Strange offered to return to the Tower with them, to check Peter’s temperature and discern whether the effects of the headache were something worse.

“It’s the Sense,” Tony hissed beneath his breath to Strange as they walked out the backdoor, a quick text having been sent to Happy a minute or so ago. He pulled up to the curve in front of them, swinging his door open and stepping out with a gasp of Peter’s name. “He’s fine,” Tony called, though his voice wavered. He pulled Peter to a stop and turned to Strange. “Go back inside—I can’t show you the schematics this evening, anyway. You’d just get bored, and I know you can’t stand being bored.”

“Neither can you,” said Strange, hissed it, looking from Tony to Peter. “Are you sure you’ll be OK?”

Peter put on a brave face and nodded. He couldn’t find it in himself to honestly answer the question out loud—would he be OK? The concern in Strange’s voice was (no pun-intended) strange, considering the man’s usual offhand manner despite their new-found closeness. All evening he’d seemed nervous, increasingly so, glancing pensively at his watch whenever he thought neither Peter nor Tony were looking—a stress tick, Peter realised soon, just like how Tony gripped his left wrist.

Tony’s hand smoothed through his hair – cautious, careful, warm and gentle; all the things Mister Tony Stark was not well-known to be. “If anything happens I’ll call Cho.”

“You’ll call me,” Strange corrected, biting, hands flayed and pointing at himself. “Cho’s back in South Korea, isn’t she? She couldn’t possibly get here in time if anything were to happen.”

“Well, nothing’s _going_ to happen,” Tony huffed, his hand falling to curl around Peter’s upper arm. “It’s the _Sense_ , Stephen. The Osborns set it off earlier in the evening... We’ll get back to the Tower and have some food-”

“Soup,” Strange said pointedly, “Toast, rice—nothing heavy. No takeaway pizza, for God’s sake.” He pulled his coat around himself as the breeze picked up, a sprinkling of summer rain whipping around them. Stepping forwards, Strange reached out and took Peter’s wrists in his shaking palms, feeling for the—“And no Spider-Manning.”

Peter couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. Well; apart from going back inside, of course. “You’re the doctor,” Peter replied with a docile nod and a choked laugh, pulling his wrists from Strange’s slackening hold. He massaged one, almost clicking the web-slinger by mistake.

“I’m two seconds away by portal,” Strange said cleanly and with a persistent edge to his accent, looking from Peter to Tony. With a brisk nod, he added, “We wouldn’t want anything happening to Peter. Not now.”

“Not ever,” Tony righted, raising his eyebrows, turning them away from Strange and the looming building behind him. “See ya later, Baker Street—sorry, I mean Bleecker Street.”

Peter threw Strange a last look before Tony was pressing him into the backseat of the Audi, muttering something to Happy before folding himself into the car. He pulled the door shut, breathed out and raised a hand to pat his sunglasses hanging from his pocket—another nervous tick. “Gotta say, kid, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter breathed, finding his lungs were finally accepting air again. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes—my head was absolutely splitting, though. Maybe you should go back, Tony; I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Leave you? On your own? In the Tower? No way,” Tony guffawed, jutting out his chin. “No. No. We’re going back to the Tower – Hap, we need to make a quick stop and grab some soup, actually – and we’re going to sit around and—Ice cream. We’ll grab some ice cream, too. OK? OK. We’ll sit around and watch movies – what d’ya wanna watch, Pete? _Star Wars_?”

A weak smile lit Peter’s face. “Sounds good.” He faltered as he said it, thinking of Harry Osborn, piecing together the puzzle of the evening and pretending the world hadn’t dealt him a dud hand. Peter pressed his palm against his face, trying to push away the mental images floundering through his thoughts as Happy drove slowly through the streets of New York again—and the feeling evoked in Peter momentary confusion; they’d just done this. Why were they doing this again? God. He needed to lie down; get his head back.

He opened his knees and dropped himself between them, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes to block out the input around him. Tony’s hand started rubbing warm circles over his back, pressing down in a grounding fashion and causing Peter’s muscles to still and his breathing to even out further.

A casual, continuous buzz split his head. “Phone,” Peter muttered, a whine in the back of his throat, the headache persisting—the twinge in his stomach nullifying the hunger he’d felt for the last three hours.

“Thanks, Pete,” Tony replied, patting his pockets until he found it. Peter heard the long, dramatic sigh before Tony answered it with the greeting of, “What Barnes?”

Peter moved his hands to press them over his ears. He didn’t need to hear it—he knew what the call was about. Lifting his head, seeing the usual storm in Tony’s eyes, Peter relented from his position and sat up, dragging a hand through his hair and opening his mouth in a yawn.

Tony rang off two seconds later, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he said, “Still no answer from Harley’s phone.”

Steve rang it each and every night, hoping one day someone would answer. So far, no one had.

“It’s my fault,” Peter brazenly muttered, groaning, as he fell against Tony’s shoulder and let the older Stark’s arm flatten across his shoulders, pulling him nearer. “It’s my fault Harley-”

“Hey. No.” Tony used one hand to navigate his phone and Peter watched as he went through to his trackers—and Harley’s was still down. Turned off. Destroyed. Something. “It’s not your fault, Pete.” Tony chin settled on Peter’s head, pressing a quick kiss between the curls of his son’s hair. “We’re doing everything we can.”

The speech was rehearsed. Peter had heard it so many times now he could mouth along as Tony continued, “Harley’s Harley, remember. He gets angry, but he knows how to take care of himself. He’s fine, Peter. He’s fine.”

But what if he wasn’t? Who was Tony trying to placate with his words – Peter, or himself? Not for the first time, Peter opened his eyes and looked up at the underside of his dad’s face, watched him worry his lip, and Peter wondered—were they really doing all they could? He definitely felt like he could be doing more, could be out there, could be training his Spidey Sense – maybe – to find Harley, to locate him, to save him from whatever and whoever had him—because someone did. Someone out there had their Harley.

Closing his eyes, Peter turned his face into Tony’s shoulder and continued to wait for the pain to subdue. He never did go out as Spider-Man that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**
>
>> Stephen stepped back into the auditorium and looked across the bustling crowd, pinpointing Norman Osborn and his son immediately.
>> 
>> Taking in a long breath, stuffing his hands into his pockets, Stephen walked near – but kept his distance, made sure he did not arouse suspicion from either the boy or the father. He took up residence speaking to a young man he thought might sustain interest for a while, as he spoke at length about psychology. Stephen tuned out some of the more obscure and weird opinions of him, and tried hard not to roll his eyes when he began a rant about some choice practices.
>> 
>> But the point was Stephen had a good line of sight on Osborn and his boy, watching them drawl their way around and—Oh. That’s not right. That’s not right at all. Stephen blinked out of his trance and bid the young man a hasty and prompt goodbye, striding through the crowd to follow them, to get closer, to hear as—
>> 
>> “Justin,” Norman Osborn greeted Justin Hammer, the bespectacled man jaunting from his conversation to take the other mogul’s hand. “I didn’t expect you here. Unfortunately, you just missed Stark by ten minutes—I saw them leave. What a shame—I’m sure you were dying to talk to him.”
>> 
>> “Oh, Norman,” said Justin, patting their joined hands with fond regard. “I’m sure I’ll get my chance.”
> 
> Just a reminder Harley’s Playlist (basically the What Happened to HarleyTM side-story) is also available ! It’s rated **mature** for themes of torture and all it comes with, so please **read n' heed the tags**.  
> If you’ve not followed Open For All the first chapter might be a little confusing, and of course **it’s not necessary reading** to understand The World Was Wide Enough. Think of it like Agents of SHIELD and such; a bit more context to the world at large ! [Chap 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691736/chapters/56881876#workskin) | [Chap 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691736/chapters/57191338#workskin). 


	2. Domestic life was never quite my style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument.  
> A phone call.  
> And, as they say Mr. Holmes, the rest is _history_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> 1) updated the story summary, as I felt it wasn't to my standard.  
> 2) added 'Open For All' to the story title to keep everything in a functional order.  
> 3) updated tags.
> 
> **An advanced note on Nat/Black Widow**  
>  -Please keep an open mind as you go into this chapter regarding her character and the changes I have made to her post-Endgame. There are reasons for this which aren't discussed in this chapter due to the _other_ important thing happening, but we will get around to them.  
> As this is an AU set after Endgame, and Nat is alive, I've had to change what happened on Vormir and the acquisition of the Soul Stone. I thought very long and hard about this before implanting it into my storyline.  
> Thank you for understanding ! -J

###  **Two months or so later; October.**

Frankly, Tony had had enough of all this shit.

He sat poised on the edge of the armchair, clenched fist against his mouth, and listened to the ringing silence surrounding them – them being him, Rogers, Barnes, Wilson and Romanoff. And Rhodey. And Bruce. It gave him those old civil war vibes from when the stupid Sokovia Accords had first been chucked on the table.

Well, now another batch of them had arrived. Great. Yay. If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the ink was still fresh. He cleared his throat to break the rippling quiet and broached the subject with a tentative, unfurling hand towards the heavy documents. “Now... Before we start talking – did everyone do the assigned reading?”

“You know damn well we didn’t, Stark,” Rogers barked, already on his feet and pacing the living quarters of the Tower. “I, I can’t believ—this is exactly what we thought would happen! _This!_ A public register! More rules! More regulations! _Changes. Every. Damn. Minute_.” The Captain slapped a balled fist against his thigh with every word to make a point. “God. That was _one thing_ the Snap did right—it got rid of the idiots who thought we needed these damn rules!”

“Technically, Steve,” Rhodey began, crossing his arms and slumping down against the back of Tony’s chair. “It got rid of needing them for the time being—General Ross still wanted me to bring you guys in. They were still pushing for legality.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, sitting tautly. Tonight her eyes were blank, void of much light to indicate awareness of the situation around her. Put simply: tonight she was blind, and that made her rather cold in a conversation. Her Braille addition of the Accords sat in her lap and she aimlessly ran one finger across the embossed paper. “Besides, we _did_ accept the Accords, Steve.” She paused. “After the Blip—all the summits and the meetings...”

Tony watched between his fingers as Rogers pulled up, stopping his pacing with a stamp of his foot. “We agreed to them when they were the _old_ Accords, Nat. _I_ agreed when they weren’t about having a damn _sign in sheet!_ How can anyone expect us to do our jobs if we have to file a report for every move we make? If we have to wear government-approved trackers and stay in a certain area? I mean, come on—We have to have _assigned_ areas, now? And no more than seven of us to a city like New York? Are you kidding?” He grabbed the paperwork off the table, practically ripping the binding as he pulled it open to search for another example. “How is a city like Boston going to cope if they only assign _one_ of us there? How do you even decide who’s going to relocate? And what’s this—what’s this idea about having a superhero group in every state? In every country? There aren’t enough of us to cover the US, no less to cover the rest of the world...”

“The tracker’ll trigger every time I go for a run,” Barnes mused, as he pulled his own copy of the Accords from under the heightened table. “I’m practically a criminal according to this.”

“We’re all criminals according to this,” Wilson muttered, clenching and unclenching his fingers around his coffee cup. “Especially Wanda—how can they just _outlaw_ her entire power set? What’s she meant to do? Go off sellin’ flowers door-to-door?”

Sending them a tight smile, Tony said, “We’ll sort this—I, I’ll sort this.” He thumbed the pages, then raised a hand to push his hair back. “I’ll get it moderated, I’ll—I’ll think of something.”

“You better, Stark,” Rogers replied bitingly, kicking the recently-swept floor with the tip of his sneaker. “I mean – what’s Peter going to be after this? What’s _Peter_ going to do about his identity?” Slapping the Accords down in front of Tony, Rogers underlined a passage with his middle finger – and Tony quietly wondered if there was a message there, “Look, Tony – right here: _Along with the regulations, the committee feel it will be necessary for all superheroes to be unmasked and publically identifiable_. Have you even _considered_ what this means for your son?”

“Of course I have,” Tony replied, sweeping the Captain’s fingers away from the paperwork. “I plan to have a chat with him about it.”

“A chat?” Wilson deadpanned, his eyes shooting up. “That’s it? Daddy’s gonna put his foot down and tell ‘im he can’t fight crime unless he walks out on a stage and unmasks?”

Tony hesitated, and then slowly nodded, taking his water bottle from the table. “You got it, wings. Peter has my full protection now and, besides, he’s agreed with the Sokovia Accords since – Germany.” Everyone shifted about uncomfortably at the quick mention. “I have no doubt he’ll agree with registration since the mask has always been about protecting. I can protect him, now. He doesn’t need the mask...” Tony worried his lip, looking to the side; unsure, unconvinced, but he wasn’t about to back down now. “Cap, this is the same thing we were up against all those years ago, OK? I don’t want another war.”

“It’s not the same thing, Tony,” Steve replied immediately, shaking his head. “They practically want us to be civil servants—they want to give us _holiday leave_.”

“Isn’t that what we are, uh, already?” asked Bruce, leaning back in his chair. He adjusted his glasses awkwardly, the Accords papers held in his other giant hand, as he traced various passages and paragraphs. “We’re servants to the civilians, Steve. Tony’s right about this—what was it you said to me earlier?” He looked across at Tony, and Tony suddenly wished he hadn’t already talked Bruce into this—he was smart though; he would have come round to it anyway, Tony tried to reason.

He just wanted to make sure of it. Have another person on his side.

“Uh-” Tony began.

“Keeping one hand on the wheel,” Bruce remembered, slapping the Accords as he grinned widely at the others. “Go with it before it’s done to us.”

The silence was palpable. Rhodey slapped his forehead and started shaking his head, taking in and letting out a breath before he met Tony’s eyes across the table—they said everything without him needing to say a word: _You idiot_ , Rhodey’s eyes told Tony, and he tried to armour himself with confidence as quickly as he could – seeing Steve’s body going tense, his whole face starting to redden with anger. _You had to use old arguments, didn’t you?_

Before Steve said anything, Tony managed to bite out, “Nothing’s changed, Cap.”

“Everything’s changed, Tony.” Steve flexed his hands and sat back down in his chair, pulling his cold coffee across to him with a long, laboured sigh—as if the world had fallen on his shoulders and he was struggling to push it off again.

But, then again, when the Hell had Steve Rogers ever really bemoaned the weight of the world? When had he suffered under its weight and its expectations? Tony’s thoughts darkened as he stared at the Captain, trying hard to keep himself in check as he lifted his eyes to the others dotted about the living space of the Tower, before finally settling his stare on the amber sky outside. With the coming of Fall, the days had started to darken earlier and earlier and the threat of rain crested each cloud in the sky with the ever-present and increasing likelihood of a storm.

As he took in the sky, Tony’s thoughts jumped between the current dilemmas of his cursed existence. It really seemed like he couldn’t catch a damn break—it was probably selfish, thinking on it, but it wasn’t his fault he’d practically been made into the antihero by these assholes.

He didn’t mean that – the assholes thing – he loved them; really. They’d just well and truly earned that title lately.

The last few months upstate hadn’t been the easiest with the team. There’d been the usual rowdiness of everyone being together, especially now the Compound was up and functioning again, but there’d also been an unmistakeable undercurrent of constant and pernickety comments thrown Tony’s way – from jibs about the Compound not feeling ‘right’, to cool brush-offs when he asked whether they wanted any of their tech updated, and finally judgement on his parenting skills from Scott Lang (when he chose to turn up unexpectedly) and Clint—although Clint’s comments had, at least as far as Tony could tell, come from a warm place as he’d made his pricking remarks without everyone present and had seemed generally concerned about giving his advice when Morgan was born.

Having been an only child, Tony had patiently listened as Clint told him to be careful not to let Morgan’s birth overshadow Peter and his achievements. Tony reassured him it wouldn’t, that he was making lots of time for Pete and always making sure he was included whenever he could be. Clint agreed it seemed Tony had it under control, but he just wanted to give his fatherly advice.

Clint, in Tony’s books, was a great guy—and Tony was a jealous man when he saw his life laid out in a seemingly perfect fashion: the farm, the kids, the tractor, the land, the house and everything it offered. Tony was enthralled by it, thought on it often – that stupid cabin in the woods hadn’t done the fantasy justice. He wanted his damn farmhouse.

Maybe then Pepper would actually let him get an alpaca, too.

Peter had loved being back at the Compound. He was an absolute shining beacon of light during the maddening days when Cap’s pushiness got too much. The kid always wanted to learn, always wanted to be doing something—he couldn’t sit still, but he could hyper-focus. He could get the job done. God, Tony loved him. His son. Sometimes it took him a minute – sometimes he really had to stand back and stare at the Spiderling and just remember that Peter was his son.

He’d missed _so many years_. How was he ever gonna make it up to him?

Tony ran a hand over his head, slipped his fingers through his hair and hit the occasional knot. He let out a loose sigh, trying in earnest to bring himself back to the present discussions of the team; it was difficult though, when the arguing had turned to who was going to represent them at the upcoming Accords Summit—if any of them actually needed to be there, or if this was better left to Hill and Fury. Tony had a position on it.

“Fury can handle this one,” Tony muttered into his palm, hearing the hitch of the table as he spoke through them. “And Hill. I’m not going – if any of you want to go, be my guest, but I’ve already decided I’m not going so don’t even try _Wilson_.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Wilson replied, his arms crossed over his chest and an all-knowing smirk plastered across his smug mug.

“I think...,” began Rogers, and Tony clocked out of the conversation again.

_Do you think?_ Tony was half-attempted to interrupt again, but even he had a limit on how ridiculous this could go. His watch gave a sudden and irritating bleep, and he afforded himself a glance as the text popped up on the screen:

**BleeckerStreet** : Uptown

_... Crap_. Tony flicked it away and turned his head to look out at the skyline again, as the dark eased in almost entirely and he was left staring as New York lit up in an array of neon. In the near distance, Oscorp’s lights flickered to life and Tony felt a chill seep into his very soul. Ever since he and Peter had met Osborn and his son at the charity fundraiser a few months ago, Tony hadn’t been able to shake the persistent cold whenever he so much as glanced at their obtuse building.

He’d felt a similar sensation recently on a trip into Queens when he’d driven past Hammer Industries.

And now he had to deal with the Wizard.

“Right,” Tony interrupted whatever Barnes was saying, taking both his and Steve’s glare on the chin. Standing up from his chair, Tony flashed a glance at his watch where, again, another text from Stephen had just come through:

**BleeckerStreet** : Judas

...

Well...

“Shit,” Tony swore, flicking his eyes back to the Accords paperwork with a slight shake of the head. “Shit. I have to deal with this – this... this can’t be right.”

“What’s wrong, Tony?” Rogers asked, all traces of his former anger dispersing as concern leaked into his tone. He made to stand. “Is it Peter?”

“Uh... No. No, it’s—it’s not Peter. It’s, uh, Strange.”

Wilson cleared his throat and barked, “Yeah, we got that, Stark. You’re pretty damn strange yourself—but what’s strange?”

“ _Stephen_ Strange, you nitwit,” Tony bit out in a fast reply, grabbing out his phone to check the text was, in actuality, real. He prayed to a bleeding God it wasn’t—but there it was. Bright as anything. Judas. _Judas_. “I-I have to-”

“What’s wrong with him, Tony?” Bruce asked over the fire and brimstone silence.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ , as such,” Tony responded, rubbing the back of his neck and knowing his words would cause suspicion—which was probably not a good thing currently. Dammit—

His phone stuttered into life, chiming Stephen’s call-tone, and Tony answered it immediately, sweeping away from the team and down the hallway. He got to his and Pepper’s bedroom and shut the door behind him. “FRI-”

“Soundproofed, Boss.”

Tony held the phone to his ear, listening to the short and ragged breaths on the other side. When Stephen didn’t speak for some time, Tony attempted a forced chuckle and said, “From the sound of your voice, I’d wager you just had some _fun_ , you kinky wizard. Mind inviting me, next time? I’ve always had a bit of a thing fo-”

“ _Tony_.” Stephen’s voice stopped Tony dead. “ _Where is he?_ ”

Tony popped the top button on his shirt. “Pete, you mean? He’s... at cram.”

“ _Tony_.”

“... Stephen.”

A terse beat of silence commanded Tony’s consciousness and the world slowed to a halt. A second later, Stephen whispered through the phone, “ _Answer me honestly, Tony. Where’s Harley?_ ”

Tony raised an eyebrow, even though the Sorcerer couldn’t see it. “Stephen, I really have no clu-”

His door flung open behind him suddenly and Tony swung around, pulling the phone from his ear just as Stephen went to reply—but all of Tony’s focus was suddenly on Bruce’s giant shape in his doorway and his garbled words coming out too quick and- “Bruce! Calm down! What’s wrong? Wha-”

“Harley!” Bruce spat out, his eyes seeming to grow as wide as plates. “Harley answered his phone!”

Tony’s mouth gaped open as Bruce pelted back down to the living area and Tony had no choice but to make his legs move – back and forth, step after step – and he brought the phone to his mouth and gasped out a quick, “Call you back!” He pressed the end call button faster than he did on most telemarketers and shoved the phone in his pocket, belting around the corner and into the living room to see Rogers pacing aggressively in front of the huge windows.

Before Tony had a chance to say anything, Rogers pivoted on the spot and rushed towards him, holding out the mobile screen-forward—showing Harley’s contact details and the ebb of green surrounding the smiling photo. “Harley! Harley answered! Som-someone answered! Oh, my God! Stark—Tony! For God’s sake, how do I track this?” Rogers practically yelled in his face, thrusting the phone towards him.

For a split second, all Tony did was gap before he righted himself and replied, “You-you can’t be serious, Capsicle—he answered? Give me that—Harley? Is that you?” He tore the phone from Rogers’s hands and held it to his ear, shaking as he listened to the bubbling breath on the other side of the phone.

He received no spoken reply, just another gasp of breath and a rippling cough.

“Harley, can you speak?” Tony asked, but he already knew the answer. “Harley— _Goddammit_ —Harley, wait a moment.” He ended the call and started fiddling with the phone, easily swiping across to request a video call instead—the first thing he was doing when he got the little bastard home was updating his phone—and Rogers’s phone, too; why did they both suffer through having outdated models?

(Because Tony didn’t make it a priority to give them updated ones like he did with Pepper and Peter, but that’s beside the point.)

Tony paused in pressing the video call tab and looked up at Rogers and Barnes – who’d come up close – as realisation dawned on him. “He can’t speak, Cap,” Tony said, quietly, the colour draining from his face. “Why can’t he speak?”

“Tones, for God’s sake—call him back!” Rhodey yelled from across the room, collecting his jacket.

“I am!” Tony replied, downing his eyes to the phone. He stepped across to the super soldiers, getting them in shot, and jumped when his own phone started buzzing from his pocket. He ignored it, though, when Harley appeared on Rogers’s phone screen.

Every word on his lips died in a matter of heartbeats, and it took everything in him not to be sick when the blurred face of Harley stared at them. He’d obviously dropped the phone into his lap, exposing the full horror of his arms and neck and face—his _goddamn_ jaw was practically hanging off. It was far too much to take in all at once and Tony let his eyes leave the screen, feeling angry tears catch on his lashes as he looked at the ceiling. “FRIDAY,” he gasped out, handing the phone to Rogers – who really did look like he’d be sick but he was inching towards it, trying to grab the mobile from Tony’s hands—and Tony was all too pleased to let him have it; Harley’s face was already a burnt mark on his thoughts. “Tra-track the location Harley is broadcasting from.”

“Sam!” Barnes called, elbowing past Tony. “Can you help Nat get the quinjet ready? We’ve found Harley!”

Tony pulled out his phone and waited for FRIDAY to do her thing, hurrying into the kitchen to grab himself a bottle of water—his throat had all but dried up at the sight of the _boy_ , and he wasn’t quite sure he’d processed it completely yet, still stunned from the apparent scores of exposed flesh and torn skin, huge blooded-over boils and peeling scabs. He shook himself, head to toe, forcing down a gulp of water he immediately dribbled down the sink’s drain, wiping his mouth. His phone started playing the goddamn _Harry Potter_ theme music again. “FRI, block calls from Stephen for a minute, would ya, girl?”

“Done, Boss.”

“How-how close...” Tony swallowed, hand over his pounding heart, returning to the kitchen table where he’d left his phone connecting to Rogers’s, trying to track the connection to Harley’s phone—no tracker? No problem. If Harley had—

What was he trying to say? He’d seen the boy! He’d been effin’ tortured! Of course he wouldn’t have been able to _answer the phone_! It was a wonder the thing still appeared to work!

“Boss-” FRIDAY began, concern leaking in. “I’m registering a very elevated pulse. Shall I inform Ms. Potts?”

“Hell no,” Tony breathed, shaking his head vigorously. “She- she doesn’t need to worry about me.” Grabbing up his phone, Tony made to get back into the living area. FRIDAY pinpointed the signal suddenly, and he just about let out a sigh of relief, but it turned into a gasp of abject horror—his feet moved, and he was running, rushing- “Steve-”

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” Steve repeated over and over from where he’d crouched down, holding the phone in landscape between shaking, denting fingers. “Tony! Should we get in touch with Peter?”

Tony started shaking his head before he even knew what he was doing. “He’s at cram; he’s fine.” _But Harley’s not. Harley’s really not OK_. Everything built up suddenly, the noise of the Tower pressing down around him, and Tony broke. “Holy shit, Steve!” he shouted, slamming a hand on to the other man’s shoulder, shoving his phone beneath the other man’s nose. “He’s—he’s just—Harley’s _three miles out from the Compound_.”

“What?” Steve turned his face up, and it sure was something to see the great Captain America with unshed tears sitting in the corners of his eyes. He rubbed them away with a rough hand and stood up, towering Tony immediately, grabbing his phone in the other hand, staring at the map location and- “We checked—we searched the whole area!” Steve practically yelled, and Tony winced, glad Morgan was with her mother. “Twice!”

Tony fumbled to grab his phone from Steve’s grip. “Barton’s at the Compound, now. I’ll get him over there, and we’ll meet them there—FRIDAY.” Her listening icon appeared in the top right-hand corner of his phone. “Alert Cho and tell her to set up—God, go ahead and tell her to set up _everything_.”

“On it, Boss.”

Tony pressed a hand to his face as Steve went back to staring at his phone, at the almost-silent image of Harley sitting slumped against a damn tree. Pushing down the bile threatening an appearance, Tony choked out, “Harley? Harley? Are you awake? Harley, stay awake—Oh, God, look at you.” He stared at him – the razed skin around his neck, undoubtedly from a collar—and what the Hell was he covered in? Tony didn’t even want to consider it. His pulse slowed, taking in the boy he hadn’t seen for six months.

_He’s not a boy anymore_. He hadn’t been a boy for a long time, but this Harley—

“Who did this? What son of a bitch did this?” Steve asked, cold fury choking his hard accent.

Tony hesitated before placing a hand on his shoulder. He inhaled, ready to say something – to say something to end the hostility they’d had over this, over Harley for months, but the words wouldn’t come. A second later, Barnes skidded into the room, breathless as he managed, “Quinjet’s ready. Let’s go.”

+

Tony’s hands shook as he held the controls, taking them upstate. Technically, FRIDAY was piloting—but dammit he couldn’t be back there when Steve was glued to his phone, glued to talking to Harley, keeping him awake, saying they were on their way, that they’d be there soon.

Tony couldn’t escape the very vivid thoughts running through his very genius brain— _That should be me. I should be saying those things. I should be talking to him. I should be the one talking to him. I should be_ —

Except, he shouldn’t—he should be exactly where he was, sitting at the front, watching as suburbia turned to fields and forests, and clicking around on his phone, instructing Barton, texting Pepper, telling her the situation. He’d long since distanced himself from Harley—he didn’t – Harley didn’t need him rushing back now. He needed someone who’d been there, who’d seen the signs he was slipping, who’d witnessed his cries for help and attention, of which Tony realised were now evident—had realised over the past few months had been more than just cries: they’d been screams.

Who he needed right now was Steve—No. Rogers. He needed Rogers. Tony rolled his neck. “FRI,” he said, exhaustion clinging to his every limb. “Status report – Where’s Legolas?” He pushed the console in, but FRIDAY had had the controls since they’d left New York.

“Entering the clearing now, Boss.”

“Atta girl.” Tony got up, grabbing his phone from its plinth, and walked across to where the others were – none of them had had enough time to change into gear, although Rogers had grabbed his shield, Barnes had his guns and Natasha had pocketed her new location-zoning Widow Bites. Tony doubted they would need any of it, but if it made everyone feel better he wasn’t about to disregard them.

Maybe he was just bitter because Rhodey said he wasn’t allowed to fly ahead—something about making ‘irresponsible choices’, whatever that was meant to mean.

“... Harley, give the phone to Clint.”

Tony snapped out of his thoughts at Rogers’s tense voice, quickening his pace across to them as he heard hustle and bustle on the other side of the small screen. Just as he arrived to look over the Captain’s shoulder, he heard Barton exhale a loud, laboured breath and he said, “Steve. This is... Jesus... When you said he was hurt...”

“How bad is it, Barton?” Tony asked, trying to keep the little bit of spite from his voice. He could have been there by now, could have landed right beside Barton and helped quicker—but instead—

“It’s bad, Stark. I’ve... I’ve seen some shit – hell, I’ve done some shit. But, man, this is... God, he’s just a kid.”

“Can you get him back to the Compound?” asked Rogers, insistence in his voice. Barnes gripped one side of the phone, staring at the screen with armoured contempt.

Barton crouched beside Harley, the archer’s face full-screen as his eyes roamed over the body in front of him. He started to shake his head, slowly at first, and then quick and damning. “I have absolutely no clue what injuries he’s got beneath his clothes—God, they’re hanging off him, Cap—his _jaw is hanging off him_.”

Tony clenched a hand into the short of hair, spinning around to march back across to the console—the window—staring out at the matt sky in front of them. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Tony shouted, getting increasingly louder, causing the others to send him a look—he didn’t even put a word to what sort of look it was. “FRIDAY, how far are we out?”

_Please, please not much longer_.

“Thirty minutes, Boss!”

“Shit! Shit! _Shit!_ ”

+

They can’t directly park the quinjet in the clearing – because of the dense forest – so FRIDAY brought them down in the nearest unoccupied field. Thankfully, it wasn’t far out from the road or Harley. As the others dashed ahead, Tony jogged behind them, tapping away at his watch aggressively in a feral attempt to deploy SI drones to his location. If whoever had dumped Harley had left _any_ tracks, he’d know about it in a few hours.

He soon caught up to the team, breathing heavier than he’d care to admit, leaning forwards with one hand on his heart and the other gripping his knee for support. Tony waved away Rhodey’s concern, chugging some water, and then strode towards where Bruce, Rogers and Wilson were currently expertly tucking blankets around Harley’s starved body. “My God,” Tony muttered, the patchiness around him forcing him to squint at the crusted blood layered over the kid’s face. “Do you want some light?”

“Trust me, you don’t,” said Clint, his hand going between gripping his stomach and his mouth. He held Natasha’s shoulder with the other, but for whose support was unclear. “We need to get ‘im back to-to the Compound—Where did you park the jet? There? OK. C’mon, I can show you the quickest way through this part of the woods back to that field. I was here with my kids just yesterday.”

“You didn’t see anything suspicious?” asked Wilson.

Tony caught Clint shaking his head. “Nope. And we were over the other side today.”

A few moments later, silence having descended on them, Clint began to lead them through the forest and back to the quinjet—it was only slightly shorter, the trek he showed them, but it saved a precious ten minutes as the chills of Fall began to press down on them. When they arrived back at the ‘parking spot’, Wilson chanced a lone cow away and then they were off to the Compound.

+

Laura Barton met them outside, looking the very same as when Tony had last seen her in Missouri. The docile summers and winters in the off-grid seemed to be doing her well, and Tony couldn’t help the spark of jealousy arising in him. He quashed it, politely greeted her, and then followed the rest of the team in—barring Natasha and Clint, who stayed put.

_Deaf leading the blind_ , thought Tony with a spike of empathy to the whites of the Black Widow’s eyes, before he disappeared into the Compound behind Rhodey and Wilson. He quickly pushed passed them, seeing Helen Cho’s lithe figure striding purposefully towards her patient wrapped up in Bruce’s arms.

“Bring him in!” she demanded with a sharp wave of her hand. “First room in the medical quarter!”

“Helen,” Bruce said, breathing heavy, his arm covering Harley’s face from view. “Helen, it’s really bad – I think I-”

“We’ll handle it, Doctor Banner,” said Helen, nodding her way through her words as they marched steadfast to the medical wing of the Compound. Tony followed close behind, as he heard the Korean let out a huff and add, “My team and I have seen war wounds. We can handle this.”

+

Twenty minutes later Helen Cho emerged from the room and announced, “I’m going to be sick.” She walked away, her girls following, eyeing every trashcan on her way to the nearest bathroom. As she turned the corner, she could he heard muttering, “Whoever did that to a _boy_... My God. They have no humanity.”

Tony raised his eyes from his phone – where he’d idly been playing _Minecraft_ for the last twenty minutes or so – and looked at Rogers sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room chair beside him. The Captain had gone tense, his muscles pulled taut as he stared, dead-faced, after Cho. A second later he was on his feet and at the door, pausing to throw Tony a quizzical look before he turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

Gathering his courage, a belated glance at the several missed calls from Peter, Pepper and Stephen, Tony stood up from his own uncomfortable chair, stretched the ache from his legs and then made to follow Rogers into the room. He corrected the collar of his shirt, pulled his jacket into place and took in a deep breath—and immediately gagged as the smell of rotten flesh touched his tongue and swept through his nostrils. Reaching to undo his top button and then remembering he’d done that already back at the Tower, Tony ducked his mouth and nose under the fabric, eased by his own clothes’ smell as he finally stepped into the room and followed Rogers across to Harley’s bedside.

From the smell alone, Tony was very near to following Helen to the nearest bathroom—but the sight was another story and he shut his eyes momentarily before steeling himself to take a proper look at the young man on his sickbed. The medics had cleaned (as much as they could, anyway) the debris off his skin and the rawness of his flesh was similar, if not completely reminiscent of market-stall meat. Red and weeping from harsh disinfectant, Harley looked an absolute sight.

The bandages covered most of his body – arms, torso especially, but the angry razed skin of his neck was on full display and, though it looked better not caked in mud, it was studded with imprints and pressure—like the rest of his face was, too. Tony raised his eyes to look at his jaw, at the off-centred gap of it covered in needle-pinpricks and adjusted to set his weight carefully to the side – ready for some attempt at realignment. He’d need intense surgery probably costing thousands of dollars just to reconstruction his extremities.

The real question, from Tony’s point of view, was how damaged was he on the inside? His organs? His muscles? His nerves?

His brain? His mental state?

Thankfully or not, Harley was asleep—the bags beneath his eyes told of months of exhaustion, of not knowing what would be done to him if he slept, and Tony felt that. He raised a hand to his arc reactor, feeling the hum of the nanos beneath his fingers, and remarked in a silted voice muffled from his shirt, “He smells like rotten flesh.”

Rogers gasped in a breath and immediately started coughing as the taste swamped his mouth. He nodded, visibly shaken, pulling up a chair to sit at the side of the bed. Reaching, Rogers curled his large fingers over Harley’s bandaged hand, pressing only slightly against it—unknowing what wounds sat beneath it.

Tony watched him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. After a moment of dallying at the end of the bed, he swallowed around the lump in his throat and walked around to the other side, facing Rogers, to place a tense, careful hand on Harley’s shoulder. He met Rogers’s eyes, blue hitting brown, and then looked away when his phone started to vibrate, otherwise mute. Keeping one hand securely on Harley’s bandaged shoulder, Tony took the phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “Peter,” he said, throwing a look at the other man.

“You better answer it, then,” Rogers replied, a trace of bitterness settling in his voice as his fingers curled tighter around Harley’s hand. “FRIDAY probably would have told him where we are, and what’s happened.” He turned his expression, dark with sadness, on Harley’s mangled face.

Biting down on his lip, Tony set the phone on the table. “No, I sho-”

“I think you’ve done enough,” said Rogers, a stillness in his firm, simmering accent. “Peter needs you.”

“Harley needs me.”

Rogers looked up, but he had no amount of emotion in his blank expression. He simply stared at Tony, implored him, and Tony felt the rebuke without the Captain having to say a word. Slowly, taking his hand from Harley, he picked up his phone and stepped away to the corner of the room, dialling back. Peter picked up almost immediately. “Hey, Pete,” Tony breathed, raking a hand over his itching scalp.

“ _Tony! FRI told me you found Harley! I-I’m on my way—can I swing there, somehow? Or-or I have my learner’s permit—which car can I take? The Spyder?_.”

“Pete – _Peter_. Relax. We’ve got Harley. He’s...” Tony trailed off, looking across to where Rogers had slumped forwards, his eyes hard as he shifted his stare from Harley’s beaten body across to Tony. “He’s... not OK. But Hel-Helen’s here. She’s doing what she can—OK? You just stay put—you’ve got school tomorrow.”

“ _Bu_ -”

“No buts, Pete. Helen’ll stabilise him, an-and we’ll get him to the Tower for recovery,” Tony began, rubbing the pressure settling over his forehead as Peter started to babble from the other side of line. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his fingers over his eyes to clear away traces of sleep. “Pete. Pete. _Kid_. I can’t do this right now—get a jump on your homework, all right? Love ya.” He called off.

Tony started shaking his head, breathing long and loud. A second later, in the cool silence, Rogers said, “No.”

Tony turned to him, his fingers stilling from scratching his eyebrow. “What?”

“No,” Rogers repeated, though he didn’t look up. “Harley isn’t going back to the Tower. He’ll recover here.”

“Excuse me?” Tony guffawed, dropping his arms. He squared his expression, detailed in its confusion, and took a couple of steps in the Captain’s direction. “I don’t think that’s for _you_ to decide, Rogers.”

Rogers sat up, uncurling his posture from across Harley’s sickbed, and said in a tight voice, “Why not, Stark?”

“Because Harley is my-” Tony clamped his mouth shut, swallowed, looked at the clock on the far wall and tried to put his thoughts in the right order. Taking in a breath, Tony said, “Harley is my...” He trailed off again as he came to the bed, looking down at the kid.

“Your _what_ , Stark?” Rogers asked, a deadening thrum sitting in his voice. He stood up suddenly, towering the bed and Tony on the other side of it, looking down at them with unhinged pain – anguish – in his eyes. “What _is_ Harley to you? Is he _anything_? Really? I don’t like to say it, Tony, but as soon as Peter walked into the picture-”

“Leave Peter out of this,” Tony bit back in a low hiss through clenched teeth, his fingers clamping down on Harley’s bed sheets. “Back down, Steve. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Rogers replied, his hold on Harley slackening as his upset mounted and his voice started wavering between loud and quiet. “I’m not stupid, Stark—and I’m far from blind. Harl—Harley practically _worshipped_ you, and what did you do?”

Tony set his jaw and stared the captain in the eyes. “I gave him everything I-”

“You swapped him out,” Rogers interrupted with a hard glare, leaning closer. Tony leant away. “Two minutes with Peter—a piece of paper—and suddenly you couldn’t give a _shit_ about Harley. You brought him into your mad world, Stark! You showed him everything he’d _never_ have! All-all he wan-wanted... All he wanted was a _dad_ , and-” Rogers broke off, inhaling the death-laden breath. “ _You can’t give him that_.”

Tony’s heart stopped beating. A second. Two maybe. The silence encroaching on him was pressured and numbing, and he stood there over the boy, over Harley, as Rogers crumbled from his tense posture and moved closer to the kid, slumped down to brush a hand over his broken face. Taking in a long breath despite the taste of the smell, hearing himself alive as did so, Tony opened his mouth—and shut it. Repeat. He removed his hands from Harley’s bedside. “You’re right,” he said, to get the words out, let the asshole have his satisfaction. “I can’t.”

Rogers snapped his head up, alarm in his eyes, as if he’d expected Tony to fight. Honestly, Tony had expected himself to do so as well. “I can’t give Harley that,” Tony breathed, smearing his hands down his jacket—the slightest tint of red adhering to the light-coloured, rich fabric. “I’m not his dad. I’ve...” He closed his mouth on the words, trying to summon an excuse—but he was wrought by his past and present, shaped in the beginnings of his future. He stepped away from Harley, palms out. “He’s not my son, Rogers.”

“Tony-”

“No.” Tony shook his head, as his phone buzzed irritably in his pocket and he knew he had to answer it. Whoever it was, they obviously needed his attention. He cast a glance at Harley, steeling his heart against the sight of the boy. “He’s not—Harley is not my responsibility.”

“Wha—what the Hell does that mean?” Rogers’s voice was shattered with spent emotion, all his strength having vanished in his downed shoulders as he stared at Tony. He started gesturing, started making noises which didn’t mean anything and, finally, managed to gasp out, “Of course he’s your responsibility.”

Tony couldn’t stop the choked laugh, though for the sake of not being a heartless jerk he tried to force down the intensity of it. “He’s not been my responsibility for months, Rogers. He needs more than I can give him.”

Rogers ground himself, and his face; the skewed emotions suddenly dispersed and he was left frowning. “He needs more than you can him _and Peter_ ,” Rogers corrected with unbidden and unprecedented bitterness, his hands curling into fists as he struck forward with a stamp.

Tony pivoted, eyes wild. “Don’t you dare bring Pete into this!” he spat, balling his hands into fists as he marched across the room to the door—felt the gush of the breeze as Rogers followed and was on him like a dog. Tony turned, hit his arc and summoned a handful of nano particles in a gauntlet to defend himself, but the Captain retreated willingly, his palms up, a speckling of worry colouring his eyes. Tony breathed, eyes flashing between his gauntlet and the taller, stronger man. “Peter has nothing to do with my responsibility to Harley!”

Rogers held his tongue, placating, and started to shake his head slowly—undoing all his attempts at civility. “Tony. Don’t do this—don’t walk awa-”

“That’s not what I’m doing, Cap,” Tony bit back. “I can’t walk away _again_.” He waved his gauntlet, powered it down, and clenched it into a hard fist—ready to strike if he had to, if he needed to. “You know, Rogers—this is me doing Harley a favour. This was never going to end well, anyway.”

Rogers raised an eyebrow, curiosity hinting in his voice as he started, “What-”

“This is me trying to keep him safe, Rogers,” Tony interrupted him, his heartbeat a constant thump in his ears. “He was never—I was never—... It’s complicated, Steve. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Tony,” Rogers tried, stepping towards him again – a small step, just within hitting distance, and Tony responded by raising his gauntlet again. “Whoa. Hey. Tony. Please. I _want_ to understand—I want to understand why it took this long to get Harley back to us – why you’re—you’re acting like this...” He raised his eyes, beseeching Tony to hear him. “I... I want to know why you didn’t want to find him.”

Tony’s blood went cold. He’d been careful—hadn’t he? Talking to Strange, having those private meetings with him, never out-rightly saying anything to contradict the populist view of _we need to find Harley_. What had—No. That’s dangerous thinking, and already he could see he was proving the Captain right by delaying his reply. He stuttered out a laugh and said, “What... What do you mean, Cap? I-”

Behind him, the door clicked—and someone pushed, trying to open it. Clint’s voice came through, “Hey! How’s Harley? Can we come in and check on him?”

Both of the men ignored him. Rogers looked Tony in the eyes and said, “I know something’s coming. Don’t think I haven’t noticed it, Tony... for all your intelligence, you’re an absolutely terrible liar.” His stare froze up, the baby-blue of his eyes turning cold and dark – like the jagged ice of his sleeping place for oh-so many years. When he spoke next, it was with accusation and chilling serenity. “You’ve known where Harley’s been this whole time.”

“No. No, I really haven’t,” Tony replied honestly, raising his chin. “I—No. I would never have let Harley suffer like this – he’s a _child_ , Rogers—I’m not a monster.” He swallowed on the last word, a secondary thought of _or am I_ hitting him before he returned himself to the present, rolling his shoulders back and down to give himself some play-on confidence. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Then tell me,” Rogers pleaded, a roughness to his voice. “Tony—we survived the Endgame. We-we beat Thanos together – we _won_ as a team before—and we can win again if you’ll jus-just put aside your ego and _talk to us!_ ”

“Oh, wow. Now, that’s a way to get me to start talking – isn’t it? Insult me, sure,” Tony replied, tilting his head up as cold confidence flashed through him and he started, “Did we win, Steve? Did we win _as a team_?” He thumped his hand on Rogers’s upper arm, pushing him back. Amazingly, he actually took a step. “Was it as a team we decided to let Nebula get blown up? What about Vision? What about Clint’s hearing? What about Natasha’s sight—oh, we’re still _waiting for that_ , aren’t we?

“What about Thor? Wha-what about Loki? What-... What about me? What about all the years in between – what about the fact every time, _every damn time_ something happened you walked away with everything and everyone and there was- there was just me? What about it, Steve?” Tony opened his arms and leant towards him, eyeing the nervous tension in Rogers’s features. “Yeah. You know what I mean. The fact is, Captain, have we ever really been a team? Have we ever won _as a team?_ ”

Rogers flicked his eyes to the side, and didn’t respond.

It was damning, and Tony couldn’t stop the small smirk as he choked out a beat of laughter—which fell flat. “Yeah, I thought not.” With that said, Tony turned the doorknob and pulled it open, walking straight out through the others on the other side. “Outta my way.” Tony brushed Clint’s hand off his arm.

Rogers stormed out after him, but kept his distance to standing like a statue in the doorway to Harley’s room. “Tony! Wait! You—you can’t just walk away from this!”

“Watch me, Cap.” Tony threw him the middle finger and then left into the dark halls, ignoring Clint as he called—ignoring Bruce as he called—ignoring Rhodey, even.

Wishing he could ignore FRIDAY when she said from above him, “Boss, Harley is awake and asking for you.”

“Who’s he asking for, FRI?” Tony asked, jaw set, as he brought out his phone and stared at the several missed calls in the past five minutes.

She took a moment to respond, clicking out to play scattered audio—“ _Dad! I-I wan’ Dad!_ ” in Harley’s broken, ripped voice, shuttering with coughs and wet swallows and quickly drowned out by shushes and hushes.

Tony ground his teeth against his lip. “Tell Rogers to get in there, then.”

FRIDAY paused before she said in a laced, shallow voice, “Yes, Boss.”

“Oh, come on; don’t do that to me, FRI,” Tony sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He unblocked Stephen’s number in his phone and checked his texts, but paused when he heard hurried footsteps trailing him. Turning on the spot to face Helen, he said, “Whatever you need to do to get him better, you do.”

“Mr. Stark.” Helen set him with one of her seizing glares, the gentle slant of her eyes narrowing further. “He is asking for you.”

Letting out a harried sigh, Tony replied to her, “No, he’s not. He’s asking for his dad – an’ I’m not his dad, Helen. Tell Rogers to get in there—that’s who he’s really asking for. That’s who he _should_ he asking for.” Pushing his sweaty fringe back, Tony added in a fraught tone, “You send me every bill, all right? Whatever he needs—you get the best damn doctor in to do it.”

“Mr. Stark,” Helen said, her voice soft and thin. “I hardly believe it will be that simple—I—from our preliminary observations...” She swept her stare to the edges of the hallway. “We have some ideas about what he was injected with...”

Tony stepped up to her, bent close to her, stared and said in a bitten voice beneath his breath, “I want every last detail.”

“Mr. Stark... Doctor and patient confidentiality-”

“Can take a hike. I’m Tony freakin’ Stark,” Tony interrupted, keeping his voice hard. “I want all his blood work, every analysis—his recovery notes. Every damn change, Helen—I need it, and you’ll send it to me.”

She looked at him, a certainness settling in her eyes. “You do care, Mr. Stark.”

“I care about the world,” Tony replied, taking another glance at his phone. “I just wish it cared about me a little more—but what are ya gonna do, huh? Guess I just haven’t saved it enough yet.” He turned away, about to walk out the door, but paused when he felt the Korean’s slim hand wind over his shoulder.

Helen stared at him, and he stared back. She lowered her eyes. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That will be all, Ms. Cho.” He shot a glance back down the hallway, to where one of her girls had appeared with her clipboard. “I think you best get back to your patient.”

“Yes, I should,” Helen replied, dipped herself in a bow, and then left.

Tony watched her go before slipping out into the dark without a care for the chill of Fall sitting in the air as blatant as pricked nerves felt beneath skin. The analogy brought back scattered images of Harley in his bed, ravaged by whatever sick assholes had done that to him—to his—

To their—

To Harley.

Tony swallowed the bile threatening to drown him. He flicked his fingers across his phone, found his texts with Stephen and wrote a reply to his numerous, worried messages:

**TStark** : Judas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**
>
>>   
> Stephen stood at the window, the life of the Sanctum around him as the sky cried fat, throbbing tears. Somewhere to his far left, Wong was sitting at the desk going over scriptures and running over paragraph—seeking—finding—and having absolutely no luck.
>> 
>> “This would be much easier,” said Wong, and the life of the New York Sanctum fell quiet, “If we had the Time Stone and could see exactly what happens.”
>> 
>> “But where’s the fun in that?” Stephen asked, staring out at the humbling figures walking through the rainy night. He raised a shivering hand to press against the condensation, leaving his imprint in the runoff of droplets cascading down the glass. He turned on the spot, the Cloak settling around his shoulders. “Wong.”
>> 
>> “Mm,” Wong replied, turning the page. When Stephen didn’t say anything, he looked up and over. “What?”
>> 
>> Sitting on the edge of the Cloak, Stephen’s phone buzzed irritably with the sound effect of an explosion. The Sorcerer looked away from it, his eyes widening.
>> 
>> “What was that?” The remnants of Wong’s tuna melt – his dinner – sat at his elbow. “Stephen. What was that noise?”
>> 
>> “My personalised text-tone for Tony Stark,” said Stephen without pause, raising one nerve-shattered hand to press over his mouth. “He’s been found.”
>> 
>> “Who?” Wong asked, small eyes narrowing.
>> 
>> A flash of lightning lit up the candle-strewn room. Stephen replied through the encroaching thunder, “Judas.” With a swish of the Cloak, Stephen strode out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the blustering rain.
> 
> And _look who's back! Yay!_ Thank you for reading ! As always, comments are my candy ;) Stay safe ! -J 


	3. And he wrote his first refrain, a testament to his pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter overhears something he maybe, probably, definitely shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Throws new chapter at you*_
> 
> Thank you for your patience ! I've been aloof lately and unable to pin down exactly what I wanted from this chapter, but hopefully you'll enjoy it. I have a small question for you all: **do you prefer shorter chapters, or longer ones? Is this (6k-ish words) good?**  
>  This chapter was originally much longer; I ended up splitting it for unrelated reasons but I'm still curious as to whether you guys prefer a nice lengthy piece to sink your teeth into or smaller ones to indulge in quick. I can't promise I'll change my current format, especially so soon in the story, but I'd love to know. Stay safe ! -J

###### 

Peter leapt to his feet as FRIDAY called out, “Boss is arriving back, Peter.” He closed the Sokovia Accords (edition 8) and tidied his abandoned homework into a neat pile beside it, throwing his pack of unopened biros on top and scrambling to make them look used and as if he hadn’t immediately started reading about the political implications Tony tried very hard to keep away from him, despite its direct repercussions on his ‘extracurricular’ activities as Spider-Man.

He darted across the living room, minding Morgan’s upturned toybox, and made it to the large doors facing the landing zone. Peter set a hand on the handle and listened intently for the unmistakeable sound of repulsers catching on the night wind and harmonising with the pouring rain. Through the flashes of lightning, Peter finally saw his dad—a second later he slammed down into one of his dramatic landings, the hail and fat raindrops clinking and pelting respectively off the gleaming armour of the Iron Man nanosuit.

“Tony!” Peter shouted, throwing open the door and stepping out on to the landing, raising a hand to shield his face from the weather. Thankfully, Peter had gotten home before it started coming down—but even just standing outside for a minute sought to practically soak him. A flash of lightning behind his dad – as Tony gestured for Peter to get back inside – had the vigilante student leap two feet in the air and scramble back into the safety of the open-plan living space of the penthouse with a yelp.

Peter wrapped his arms around himself, shivering, watching as Tony stepped in and the nanos drew back to reveal his dry form. Immediately, eyes wide, bloodshot and staring, he was on Peter—grabbing his sleeve, pulling his kid to him. “Why did you come outside?” Tony bit out, emotion-choked voice rumbling from his rough throat. “It’s raining, kid! It’s thundering! For-for God’s sakes—you’ll catch your _death_ out there, Pete!”

“Uh... no?” Peter took a step back, picking off Tony’s fingers. “No, I won’t, Tony. I hav-”

“Dad, kid. Please, just call me Dad,” Tony interrupted, a plead in his tone as he pressed past Peter and down the hallway.

Peter blinked after him and made to follow, but Tony was back in an instant. He chucked a much too fluffy towel at Peter’s head and, begrudgingly, the teenager started to dry his hair. “Dad,” he corrected, and some of the tension eased off of Tony’s forehead. “I have an enhanced immune system: a little rain is _not_ going to hurt me.”

“No, I, I know, kid.” Tony sighed, clenching a hand on the back of the sofa to steady himself. He took in great gulps of air and shook his head a few times, grounding himself with a pat to one of the cushions. “I-I know.”

It was only then Peter noticed how absolutely shattered Tony was – how pale and pasty his skin had gotten and how he looked on the edge of collapse with every breath. Correcting the collar of his tee-shirt, Peter asked, “D’you want a coffee, dad? You look dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine,” Tony replied, his voice wavering. “I powered through that storm a little too hard—but, yeah, lordy, I could kill for a coffee right now, Spiderling.” Slicking back his hair, Tony started fumbling towards the kitchen.

Peter followed him and asked, politely, if he’d sit down at the table. In a twist from the expected events of Tony denying the request, he actually did sit down. Gathering up several mugs, Peter grabbed the various coffee pots out from the cupboard and started spooning a mixture of amounts into each—glancing at the spreadsheet pinned at the edge of his vision to get the right amount for Sam who liked a very rich-

“Kid.” Tony’s voice made him jump, losing his concentration and dumping a tablespoon of Arabica ground into Rhodey’s cup—ah, shit. “What are you doing?”

“Uh... coffee?” Peter turned, now holding Nat’s favourite import brand; it wasn’t fancy or anything; she just liked a very certain discount brand from Hungary. “You just flew ahead, right? The team’s coming back with Harley in the quinjet?”

Tony’s face, weathered by wrought emotion, smoothed into a practically blank expression. Taking in a long breath through his nose, he turned and folded his arms on the table. “They aren’t coming back, kid. They’re staying at the Compound—and Harley’s... Harley’s recovery is going to take place there, too.”

“... Sorry, what?” Peter blinked, taking in his dad’s crumbled posture as he shoved his head against his arms. Peter honestly couldn’t remember having ever seen him so defeated—except, maybe, at Nebula’s funeral when he’d had to step away for a few minutes. “What, what—what do you mean? You said on the phone-”

“I know what I said, Pete,” Tony barked, his voice muffled by his shivering arms. “But I got it wrong, all right? Cap wants Harley to recover there, and what Cap wants Cap gets.”

Peter folded back against the counter, listening to the detached, melancholy thrum of Tony’s voice as he slumped further into himself, made himself as small as possible at the kitchen table. “Right,” Peter replied, nodded, and returned to making coffee – just for himself, Tony and Pepper—who he could hear coming down the hallway in her flats at pace. “Pepper’s coming,” Peter warned and immediately Tony sat up and smoothed out the wrinkles in his clothes.

“Tony!” She appeared in the doorway not a moment later, anguish playing across her tired face. “What happened? Where’s Harley? FRIDAY said-”

“I know what FRIDAY said,” Tony replied with a fit of coughs, pressing a hand over his heart. “Harley’s fine. He’s at the Compound—Rogers and the others are looking after him.”

“But... What happened to him?” asked Peter, tilting his head slightly to the left. “You said-”

“Pete, what I said then and what I’m saying now isn’t really all that different, OK?” Tony hauled himself up from his chair and across to where the kettle had boiled. He started to pour himself a coffee, his hands shaking slightly, checking Peter and Pepper’s cup. “Just me having a drink?”

Peter opened his mouth to reply that he’d just not filled them, but Pepper got there first: “You can make me one,” said Pepper, sending Peter a somewhat sad, regrettable smile. “It’s too late for Peter to have anymore, though. He’s had about three since he got back from university.”

Tony nodded, using a flat arm to push Peter away. “How’s Morgan? Is she asleep?”

“Yes,” Pepper replied, crossing her arms over her chest. She set Tony with a narrowing stare, and then flicked it across to Peter. “Set her down twenty minutes ago—Peter, would you mind going and checking on her, please?”

“Bu—but what abou-”

“Peter.” Pepper’s lips thinned into a frown.

Peter looked between them, eyeing Pepper’s grandiose expression with calm complexity as he slowly, almost mechanically nodded and stepped out of the room. His ear caught Tony’s, “Pep, I can’t soundproof this place so-” Before Pepper was practically bursting into a yell and Peter hurried off down the hallway to Morgan’s room. He paused at the threshold, taking in a breath to still the raging beat of his heart, and then turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

The baby was, thankfully, asleep. At this point, having glanced over her, adjusted her blanket and just briefly tucked her toy alpaca in, Peter should have left – gone back to the kitchen, hoped they’d had their barmy and they could return to some semblance of normal. This, however, did not feel like one of those times. Peter briefly opened the door, listened: Pepper was talking at normal volume, except then she raised her voice and Tony raised his back and, ah... that’s...

Glancing back at Morgan, Peter sent her a soft, “Night, Morg.”

Stepping out into the hallway, deciding he better not intrude on the conversation just yet despite his stomach starting to rumble for dinner, Peter wandered up to the second to last bedroom: Harley’s room. Carefully, minding the sounds around him, Peter opened the door and went in. A fine layer of dust sat on the clinically-white sheets and covered the stacked bookcase. He flicked the overhead light on – long and loaded like subway lights – and watched the dance of colours on the maroon walls. Walking across the boards – Harley didn’t like carpets – to the desk, Peter smoothed his hand over the photos across the pin-pricked cork board and unpinned one of them.

He took it, looked at the two happy, smiling faces. Peter was one of them. The other was Harley. He couldn’t quite remember who’d taken the photo – maybe Tony or Steve – or maybe they’d asked FRIDAY to take it and send it to one of them. Peter couldn’t stop the small smile inching on to his face and he let it overtake the frown he’d been wearing since entering the desolate bedroom, allowing himself a moment to take in the carefree eyes of the kids in the photo.

... He couldn’t help wondering how Harley looked now, after six months of being away, of probably being somewhere dirty, filthy—God. Who knew? (Tony knew. Tony knew. Tony _knew_ ) Peter shivered at the thought, frequent pulses of energy passing through him as he stared at the photo of them smiling, laughing. His fingers itched to turn it over, the gentle sheen of light in the room revealing too much. Harley had written something on the back.

Peter turned it over and read the simple inscription: ‘ _Me and Peter. Brother I never had, and now I’ve got_ ’.

Oh, _Gods. Harley_.

Peter returned the photo to the cork board, pinning it carefully back into its proper place, and left the otherwise untouched bedroom with a forlorn look to the rammed-tight bookcase. He shut the door behind him, sure not to make any noticeable noise, and slowly sauntered back down the hallway to the kitchen.

Pepper was there – alone.

“Where’s Tony?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Taking a call,” Pepper replied with ratty impatience, her arms coddled over her chest and her face burrowed into the neck of her cotton jumper as if it would conceal the tension in every other aspect of her persona. Peter knew better after having lived with her, seen how she talked much more openly with the way she walked and held herself than with cumbersome words. He also knew it was something he tended to struggle with sometimes, reading her – reading everyone, really. He’d always wanted to understand it, and when he did he always wanted to help cure whatever that feeling was; it was one of the reasons he rescued cats from trees despite them not needing to be rescued.

“Oh,” Peter replied, shrugging off the discomfort lingering in the air, and moved further into the kitchen to fix some dinner; he’d asked Pepper earlier if they should eat, but she’d wanted to wait for Tony. Obviously, they still would be. “D’you want some food?”

“That would be lovely, Peter.” Pepper looked up, fleeting, but the pressure in her voice was still there; the unbidden dismissal-sounding tone she often tried to conceal and keep for her office hours and her new PA, Martyn Rennie.

Peter twisted his mouth into a short smile and made a start on pasta, because he knew he could cook damn good pasta and they probably needed something which wasn’t experimental or new or weird. He grabbed the good stuff from the fridge, checking the packets for which was gluten-free and renegotiating his starting times to match the extra cooking length to suit Tony’s intolerance. He salted the water instinctively between chopping tomatoes and eggplant, pausing to turn down the oil on the stove as the onions sizzled for attention. He turned, as did Pepper, at the sound of light-footed steps coming back in.

Tony strode through the arch, phone in hand, eyes catching in the light, and sat down opposite Pepper at the table. “And now the damn Wizard’s missing,” he told her, as if it was the most normal of an opener to a conversation—or a continue of one. For them Peter supposed it was—except Doctor Strange being _missing_ did not exactly compute.

“What?” Peter blurted, and Tony turned to him as if he’d only just noticed he was there, his eyebrows rising. “Strange is missing?”

“Yep,” Tony replied, the tension falling from his shoulders. There wasn’t a point in keeping this secret, obviously. Peter was glad for that; he and Tony’s communication was working well, thankfully. There’d only been a few instances lately when Tony had bothered trying to keep something hidden from Peter, neither of which were mentionable anyway and mostly had to do with the Accords. “Took off into the night, apparently. Wong’s looking for him.”

“Into the night? _This_ night?” Peter turned to look at the large floor-to-ceiling windows—at the rain pattering against them like a thousand tiny stones. At least the hail had stopped. “Should we go and look for him?”

Tony shook his head. “He’s not a child, Pete. He knows what he’s doing.”

An awkward apprehension settled over the kitchen suddenly, and Peter winced at the (thankfully) unspoken comparison. After all, Harley knew what he was doing as well and, from what Peter had managed to gather, Harley wasn’t in a good way right now. He continued cooking, keeping his head down, listening as Tony muttered to Pepper about this and that. Although it was certainly clear he wasn’t happy about Peter’s existence in the kitchen currently, he wasn’t seemingly about to tell him to get out either.

Which was nice, all things considered, as Peter was really very hungry. He plated quickly, giving himself his usual extra, and took the bowls to the table. Setting them down carefully, pushing Tony’s in front of him and Pepper’s in front of her, Peter took his own chair and said, “Enjoy.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Peter’s smile stretched thin across his face and he replied, “Hope it’s nice.”

There was no more conversation after that

+

Peter woke the next morning to the sun streaming in through his curtains and blinked harshly against the pressure on his eyes, trying without hope to burrow under the covers for another five minutes.

“Good morning, Peter,” came Karen’s insistent voice, the gentle ebb and flow of her accent hitting his ears as she adjusted the temperature of his room, as seen on the built-in screen across from the bed. “If you don’t get up now, you’ll be late for university.”

“I know, Karen,” Peter muttered into his pillow, raising his head to stare across at the screen now showing a colour-coded clock ticking loudly. He flicked his eyes to the ceiling, threw an arm out on to his duvet and groaned, “Good morning to you, too.”

She hummed with almost human laughter and he couldn’t help but smile at the release of tension – especially after last night and how, after their silent dinner, Tony quickly left to the lab and Pepper to bed. Although she’d mentioned doing the dishes when she woke up, Peter did it in the end to keep himself away from asking too many questions too suddenly, and only made his way down to the lab later when the storm had started to die down. He’d gently pried into FRIDAY, asking if Tony was OK, but she’d merely given him the brush off and locked down his access, telling him primly, “ _Boss isn’t in a good mood, Peter. I wouldn’t advise you to visit him right now._ ”

Despite worrying over his exclusion from the lab for a while, Peter eventually went to bed after looking through his coursework for his lectures and his schedule for cram the following day. He didn’t want to overdo his workload – God knows he’d done that back in Midtown Tech – but getting bored wasn’t on the top of his priority list either and, besides, he could drop something off his extras list later on if it came to it. He needed some focus in his life – as Tony had made clear – but now...

Now...

It didn’t feel real. Harley was _back_. Harley was _alive_. He was upstate – at the Compound – and if Peter could just... Maybe he could go up there at the weekend, take his _Nintendo Switch_. If Tony didn’t allow it, he could talk Happy into taking him despite the man semi-retiring in August—only semi-retiring because he wasn’t sure he’d live long without doing some sort of work and being in some sort of danger every now and again. That was their Happy Hogan, all right. Even when his health had taken a dive, he wouldn’t give up any of the most important things in his life—which seemed to be the Stark Family.

Being regulated to Morgan’s babysitter probably wasn’t what he considered true work, so maybe if Peter needed him to drive...

Peter stashed that thought away for later and got out of bed, running a hand through his mussed hair as he moved to the bathroom and got ready; the rain from yesterday had left a significant smell around and on him, and he scrubbed it away with typing-stiff fingers before exiting to dress quickly in an appropriate chequered button-down and off-colour jeans. Gathering up some papers, Peter left his room and walked steadfast down to the living area expecting commotion, but the place was almost deserted on account of the Avengers having left so quickly yesterday. Peter knew Pepper would have likely already left to her office below as well, which also meant Morgan would be with her or Happy depending on her meetings schedule—which, usually, Peter would have overheard at dinner but...

Hah.

Running a hand through his damp hair, Peter grabbed his backpack from where’d he stashed it behind Tony’s chair and stepped into the kitchen. It was as spotless as he’d left it last night save for a few crumbs on the countertop and the unassuming emptied strawberry yogurt pot on its side beside the sink. The coffee pot – currently having been repaired four times in the last three weeks – had been on and drained of life-giving drink and so Peter set about making instant, throwing a glance at his watch and knowing he didn’t really have time to wait. He threw together his lunch for later instead of having breakfast, listening intently for Tony’s fleet-foot steps down the hall – but all was eerily quiet in the penthouse of the Tower. A moment later, as he packed his five sandwiches, Peter raised his head to the ceiling and called, “FRI?”

“Yes, Peter?” the communal AI responded.

“Where’s Tony? Is he asleep?” Peter asked, checking the time again and deciding, actually, he would have some breakfast; it wouldn’t take him too long to whip up spice-scrambled eggs on brown honeyed toast. “Or is he... Is he OK?”

“He appears to be fine, Peter,” said FRIDAY from overhead, her voice abnormally gentle in what usually promised to be a frantic morning of getting to university on time. Everything today seemed slower though, not that Peter was about to complain. “He’s currently in the lab with Doctor Strange.”

“Oh. Is Strange OK?” Peter replied, remembering his sudden disappearance last night. At least he wasn’t missing.

FRIDAY made a terse sound before she admitted, “He arrived this morning looking like a drowned cat.” The humour in her tone was off-paste, just slightly different-sounding to that of a human’s whim. “But he appears to be well.”

“Wait,” Peter said, as he forked through his mixture of eggs and spices, turmeric turning them a curry yellow. The toast popped and he hurriedly started to butter it, smoothing honey across the hot surface and letting it seep in. He returned to the pan just as the eggs finished cooking. “You said – you said _appears_.”

“... Yes. Boss is currently restricting my access protocols to emergency only in the lab. All I have is visual and key-word recognition.”

Peter scrunched up his face at that and turned to demolish his breakfast, eating it down as quick as his stomach could take. He finished in record time, popped the plate in the dishwasher for later, and remembered himself enough to drink down a glass of water. FRIDAY’s gentle pressuring to eat and drink slower went unheard.

Pulling down the zip on his backpack, Peter shoved his laptop in and, on second thought, also his phone. Ned had been buzzing him since last night, but he wasn’t about to check it now. Grabbing a last piece of toast, Peter made for the elevator. “Lab, please,” he requested politely, but FRIDAY was slow on the uptake before she relented and dropped a few floors down with ease. FRIDAY’s elevator dinged gently now – the sound newly installed for Nat’s increasingly problematic sight loss issues – and Peter strode into the dimly-lit hallway. He chanced a glance through the blurred windows into the more ‘public’ of Tony’s private labs—but the burnt-out repulser was the only object out of place and that had been there since... last Wednesday?

It still had an arrow jammed into it, too; one of the homing ones. With Clint’s hearing loss and the aids only providing minimal help when it came to the comms (especially in battle), Tony was trying to design a new range of arrows for the archer in his spare time. The latest was the homing arrow, the one stuck in the repulser an early prototype, which should – in theory – zone-in on anything producing a certain volume of undetectable noise which Clint could presumably pinpoint through his amped-up aids. Peter could totally see it being useful, although there was, of course, the issue of getting it past the UN Board which was being compiled for superhero activity – which would include having all weapons and supernatural abilities tested, catalogued and kept on record, or so Peter understood.

It also meant world governments were going to get a chance to play with Tony’s inventions again – the ones Stark Industries used to be known for: Weaponry—only this weaponry was mostly concentrated on certain individuals with certain abilities. Peter hadn’t come toe-to-toe with many officials yet, which he was pleased about, but he knew it was only a matter of time now for both Peter and Spider-Man. The ongoing court case with the now infamous Open For All scheme and its disenfranchised proprietor Maria Rosendale was starting to hot up; the press were investigating as well, and people were starting to talk from behind identity-concealing curtains of what exactly went on behind the scenes.

Peter shook his head away from thoughts to do with it; the case and all it entailed. He didn’t need to worry about it yet. Maria Rosendale was currently somewhere out there, having set in motion the latest major turning point in his life, under some sort of witness protection thing after having received multiple death threats. Peter couldn’t care whether she ever emerged from whatever hole she’d managed to slither into.

Walking slowly along the hallway, Peter listened intently for voices. He raised a hand to his ear, touched his earbud and whispered, “Karen? Can you ask FRI if the room is soundproofed?”

It took a few seconds longer than if Peter directly asked her himself, but he didn’t want FRIDAY to talk out loud right now and potentially give him away. “It’s not, Peter.” Heh. Tony was smart (of course), and he’d know Peter would come to find him before going to university. Tony was obviously planning to find Peter and discontinue any discussion with Strange before Peter could overhear something he shouldn’t.

The fact is, Peter really wanted to overhear something he shouldn’t—especially if that something involved Harley, as he suspected it would.

He crept closer to the doors and pressed his ear against them, hearing the faintest sounds of chatter from within; low, careful, with a bit of bite. Peter knew immediately it was Tony’s voice, and he was talking fast and needing to get his thoughts out, knowing if he didn’t speak now he wouldn’t speak later. There was an up-tilt in it, though, something resembling fondness—so it had to be Strange he was speaking with. Strange was definitely there. Tony didn’t use that voice for many people anymore.

“FRI,” Peter whispered, hoping the AI would understand the need to be quiet. “I need to get in. Can you open the door a tiny bit? Like, teeny-tiny, uh, like in that movie? With the spies?” He could sneak in, hope they weren’t right inside the door (they didn’t sound like they were) and duck behind one of the lab tables to listen. This would work perfectly.

Carefully, FRIDAY opened the door just a bit – just enough for Peter to slip through. He stalled where he was, looking for them—seeing them towards the left, their backs to him thankfully. Peter crept behind the nearest table, and then the one after that. He sat down, got his breathing under control and waited to see if they’d figured out he was there—but Tony’s voice didn’t change, and neither did Strange’s. He’d managed it, then.

Good. It could only go up from here.

Peter sat as near to the edge as he could, straining his neck awkwardly to stare at them both hunched over one of the worktables. It would be easier on his knees he decided, and propped himself up. He could slip back on to his haunches if it came to it and they looked his way—thank goodness for his enhanced senses, though; he could still keep himself quite far enough away as to make his shuffling and scuffling movements almost silent; he was just a lil’ spider making its way across the lab. Perfect.  
Taking in a breath, Peter waited to hear anything of interest. He didn’t have to wait long:

“... It was terrifying.” Tony breathed lowly; his voice kept in check and tied up with controlled emotions. “I mean – his _face_ , Stephen.”

“I know. I saw it,” Strange replied immediately, his arms crossed to soothe himself. “It’s already healing.”

“Really?” The surprise in Tony’s voice was unmasked, and Peter drew his eyebrows together in confusion. Tony continued, “That’s some powerful healing factor, then. Not even Peter’s is that good.”

Strange let out a high-pitched hum of agreement, the ancient sounds of his accent seeping into his voice. “His injuries won’t take long to heal, Tony. Whatever are we going to do about that, hm?”

“Well, I don’t know—I don’t know, Stephen.” Tony’s voice splintered, like he meant to use one of his many nicknames but then decided against it. “What’s your head telling you? Have you, uh, seen anything?”

“There’s no need for that tone, Stark,” Strange bit back with instant dismissal, tilting his head up.

“I’m sorry – I-I didn’t mean it...” Tony trailed off, clicked his tongue and let out a rough-ended sigh. He blew out another few breaths, taking back some control. “Fine. Fine. C’mon, Bleecker Street—the mystic bullshit is your area. Surely there’s... something else we should be doing? You can’t seriously be telling me all we can do is _wait for it_?”

The Master of the Mystic Arts stepped around Tony in a light-footed semicircle, moving with rapid impatience himself. “I find it tiresome, too, but...”

“No.” Tony turned to him, thrust out his chest and said, “There’s gotta be something else we can do. I mean- I mean if Harley’s... Can you at least give us a damn timeframe?”

“If I had the Stone-”

“Well, we don’t have the damn Stones, do we?”

“Tony-”

“Nuh-uh. No. That-that’s the tone Steve uses... Rogers uses.” Tony went quiet, as did Strange. Neither of them looked at each other. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed when even Peter was scared to breathe lest he be discovered, as he watched them pussyfoot around the subject matter. “Estimate it, Strange,” Tony continued, deadpan. “How long until Harley’s healed? Cho’s notes aren’t giving me anything besides a list of his injuries... She wants him to have a psychological analysis, too – but you’ve met him: how easy d’you think that’ll come, huh?”

Strange started to chuckle humourlessly, lacking the warmth and fondness usually harboured between the tilts of even his most unimpressed laughter. “How easy is it to hold back a waterfall?” he asked, and Tony snorted. After clearing his throat Strange continued, “Without having properly examined him myself? I would give it a week and a half, two weeks at a stretch depending on any internal injuries.”

“No internal injuries – unless you count the _vibranium_ deposits they injected him with,” Tony replied, leaning casually into the tabletop with his elbows. He turned his head towards Strange, and Peter ducked away in case Tony saw him from the corner of his eye. Voice silted, Tony added, “You noticed, didn’t you?”

“Clear as day,” Strange replied, brushing a hand down his clothes—which looked borrowed, to Peter’s mind, probably harking back to his arriving looking _like a drowned cat_ , according to FRIDAY’s colourful description. The doctor continued in a voice which wasn’t quite as confident, “I’ve heard of something like it happening before, but with _adamantium_ , being fused into the bones... Maybe they were trying to replicate it and just didn’t inject it far enough—or maybe they did. Authorise a scan.”

Tony took in a long breath through clenched teeth and replied, “Jeez. That must have been painful—well... This must have been painful.” He touched a tablet sitting on a plinth beside him, presumably with Dr. Cho’s notes. “What sort of asshole injects liquid vibranium into a kid and then practically melts the skin around the area to prevent any of it leaking back out? What were they even trying to do? What was the damn point?”

Peter pressed a hand over his mouth, sickness churning up his stomach at the mental imagery he was assaulted with. He shut his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart.

Doctor Strange replied impassively, “That’s exactly one of the reasons I estimate a short recovery time—the vibranium is melding with Harley.” He paused, maybe to raise an eyebrow at Tony’s own sickened expression as a hand stroked up and down his neck. Keeping his voice slow and certain, Strange continued speaking, “Have you contacted Wakanda, by the way? Surely, they should know about some of their precious vibranium going missing.”

“I haven’t. That’s... for Rogers to do.” Tony raised a palm, getting himself back under control.

“How can you expect Mr. Rogers to do that when he doesn’t know, Stark?” the magic-user asked with straggled dignity, keeping his head held high despite the weak worth of his words. “I know for a fact you’re keeping the vibranium injections a secret from them.”

“For now, for-for their – their safety,” said Tony, though it was uncertain who he was actively trying to convince: Himself or Strange—probably both. “As I said to you, Harley isn’t my responsibility bu-but I still have to protect him.”

“From whom?” asked Strange, drawing out the word.

“ _Whom_ do you think? _Himself_.”

“He will be your responsibility, you know,” Strange replied immediately, disregarding the weakness in Tony’s voice. “In a few weeks, when his mind cracks and-”

“Stephen.” Tony’s voice was haltingly stiff when he spoke the other man’s name, and Peter, his pulse racing, leant around to see he was glaring up at the Wizard with an unrivalled intensity. “We _don’t know_ -”

Doctor Strange laughed a full and proper laugh this time—although it was, as others had been, completely joyless. “We know that much, Tony. We both know why you won’t authorise a psychological analysis—I might not be able to diagnose it, but-”

“I don’t have to authorise anything, Strange. If Cho wants Harley psychologically analysed which, by the way, is a total ass wa-”

Peter turned his head around the side of the table and watched as Strange marched around the Tony and grabbed the tablet, holding it away from the shorter man with almost childlike fuss. “ _I strongly do not advise a psychological analysis for Harley at this current time_ ,” Strange quoted, downing his eyes to stare at Tony with cloaked judgement. “Tony, I know you see it—for God’s sake; I only need one look at the medical files you keep on your lawyers to _know_ you _know_ what you’re looking for.”

“Strange.” Tony pointed a long index finger at him and reached with the other hand for the tablet. “Give me that-”

“Tony, this is serious – we need to tell them-”

“Harley would never hurt them,” Tony said quickly and with the smooth eagerness of a scientist testing a new equation or formula. “He’s a _child_ , Strange. He’s a _child_.”

“He’s a child without regard for anyone but himself – _and_ without a sense of risk,” Strange replied, anxiety lacing his quietening words.

Tony made a disapproving noise. “That – that isn’t true. You’re a doctor—you’re a neurosurgeon, Stephen. You _know_ that isn’t true.” His voice broke on the last word. “He loves—he loves Peter, for God’s sake. And Steve. And Bucky. How can you say he has no ‘regard’ for anyone? God, sometimes I forget you...”

Peter moved on to his knees again and peered around at them, seeing his dad’s face start to crumble at the accusation settling in Strange’s tone. Peter’s heart leapt into his throat. He wanted nothing more than to reveal himself at that moment and tell Strange to leave—to see his dad getting so upset hardened Peter’s heart to his godfather’s presence: no matter what this conversation was telling him – what he thought it might be about – he suddenly wanted to forget about it, forget it had happened and just go over and stop it.

If he revealed himself, it would stop. Strange would fall back into compliancy and be the gentle Master of the Mystic Arts Peter knew, respected and loved. Tony might question him, might ask what he’d overheard, but he’d soon let it go—he’d probably relax into a hug and be grateful for Peter interrupting them, even if he didn’t say it.

Peter took a glance at his watch. _Damn, I gotta be at university in half an hour_. It didn’t take him long to get there – ten minutes max. He had time, he could—

“Tony, stop. You’re getting overemotional with this... Just... You understand – don’t you? You understand what’s coming—please, God, tell me you’ve been preparing,” Strange said, sudden and with maddening pressure in his voice as he changed the subject. His entire body had stilled and gone tense, his jaw locked and his eyes staring intently down at the other man’s. “Tony, please tell me you haven’t disregarded everything we’ve spoken about?”

“I haven’t disregarded any of it, Stephen,” Tony replied, a sigh thrumming through his voice. “Honestly, I haven’t. No matter what you think—I mean, come on, I never even _looked_ for Harley because of you and your _stupid_ ‘visions’. (“Oh, we’re back on this,” Strange muttered) Who knows what sickos actually had him? I mean, if I’d known what they were _doing_ -”

“Well, maybe it would have been a better idea to find him,” Strange relented without hesitation, and Peter watched as his dad’s mouth fell open and his shoulders drooped as he exhaled loudly. Strange disregarded the disbelief in the other’s face and said, “His whole body has been fused with liquid vibranium – which hardens. He’s practically indestructible now—and that’s, potentially, not going to be a good thing...”

“Strange,” Tony said, with due concern in his voice as he addressed the other man with prickling confidence in his straightening posture. “Are you- are you shittin’ me? You couldn’t have said something like—like _five months ago_? I, I _let_ someone torture my kid!”

The doctor lifted a single eyebrow with poised buoyancy. “... Your kid?”

“Harley! Ugh. You know what I mean—I do have _some_ damn responsibility for him—OK. OK. Is that what everyone wanted to hear? I _do_ give a _fuck_!” Tony slammed a hand on to the tabletop beside him and began shaking his head, rutting a tooth straight into his lip. “God _dammit_ , Strange!”

“We can’t undo what has been done,” Strange said, a little bitterly; likely he was thinking of his Time Stone and, actually, how a lot of shit could have been averted had he had it.

Peter was a little bitter about that revelation, too.

Strange sighed and set a hand on Tony’s shoulder. The shorter man flinched beneath it, his fingers immediately curling around the nearest long-stemmed object on the table. “Tony,” Strange warned, tempering the atmosphere around them with a patient shiver of his nerve-riddled fingers—smothering the room with the smells of warm cinnamon and steeped tea, the aroma of all things warming. “Fate is cruel. You cannot change the fate of whatever is meant to happen—there might be opportunities, chances, possibilities – there might be a limitless amount of them, but... At the end of it all, sometimes you have to work with what you’ve got—and we’ve got Judas.”

_... Judas? The traitor?_

“Never done that. Always jus-just cut the line,” Tony replied, slumping forwards into his arms, breathing heavy and laboured. A hand drew up to press over his heart—and then his nano housing unit; patting it, making sure it was there. “I-I... Stephen, I’ve never-”

“Neither did I, before...” The sorcerer drew his hands to himself, stepping away from the scientist. “But...”

“But nothing, Stephen.” Sadness stabbed through the heavy smells of comfort across the room, and Tony managed to take himself away from the edge of panic. “I’ll do whatever it takes to... to insure what I have, and to keep that. No matter what Steve wants to say I’ve—I’ve always been damn willing to throw my life on the tracks, but not this time.” Tony balled his hands into fists, rolling his neck. “This time – just like wi-with Thanos—this time every damn second has gotta count.”

Peter blinked several times, his palm clapped over his mouth as realisation sunk in—that something, something was coming; something was coming to get them – again. And that something had to do with Harley? Peter laid a hand over his stomach as it churned uncomfortably and sickness spread through him, upwards, threatening to make him sick. In his ear, Karen whispered acknowledgement of his symptoms and advised he leave. He nodded wordlessly and got on his knees, starting to drag himself across the floor to the next table, trying to find his way back to the door.

“... And every second will count,” he heard Strange say, and silted relief washed over Peter: could they trust Stephen, though? Really?

“You gotta promise me, Strange,” said Tony, his voice getting distant. “You gotta promise me – you gotta promise we aren’t gonna lose anyone this time.”

Peter waited at the door to hear Strange’s response, but the man of magic remained silent.

Peter slipped out and sat against the wall, heaving in great gasps of air as he tried without hope to process everything he’d heard in the lab said between Strange and Tony. Peter drew his arms around himself and used the wall to stand up, walking quickly back to where he’d dumped his backpack by the elevator. He heaved it up, sent a last glance over his shoulder and entered. FRIDAY closed the door behind him and started to descend to the ground floor without being told.

When he stepped out into the hustle and bustle of reception and started walking he did it automatically, too entrenched in his head by how Strange’s silence was like the moment a heart finally stops beating: Damning, peaceful, and filled with everything never said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus**  
>  _: Earlier that day_
>
>> “So, here he is,” Tony said, leaning casually against his desk. He held up a card and, gesturing for Stephen to come up beside him, Tony flicked it towards the holographic display. “I said I’d make you an AI, and here he is.”
>> 
>> “He?” said Stephen, with a tone to match the pinched expression on his face.
>> 
>> “I wasn’t about to give you one of my girls,” said Tony, about to stick out his tongue but then thinking better of it. He wasn’t that much of a child—he didn’t want to be, anyway. He flicked the card again and the artificial intelligence lit up the square of floor specially designed for it. “Enough of the long face, doc. I made him especially for you, remember.” Clearing his throat, Tony said, “PIANO, say hello.”
>> 
>> A smooth and agile voice strummed out a deep and resounding, “Hello, Mr. Stark. Hello, Mr. Strange.”
>> 
>> “ _Doctor_ Strange,” Stephen corrected immediately.
>> 
>> “I’m sorry,” said PIANO. “I don’t recognise any other titles in my database beside Mr. Ms. and Mx.”
>> 
>> Stephen turned to Tony. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” At Tony’s sidelong grin, Stephen raised a shaking hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fine. What does the acronym stand for, then? PIANO?”
>> 
>> Tony grinned wider and raised his eyebrows. “I would tell ya, Strange, but I think I’d rather leave it a mystery for now.”


	4. We had to let the peace talks cease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter doesn't know what's going on in the wider picture - or even the smaller picture, but something's wrong. Something is definitely very wrong.  
> Honestly, the last thing he needs right now is a meddling Harry Osborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience with this chapter ! And thank you for answering my question on whether you liked long chapters or short ones--overwhelmingly, it appears you guys prefer long chapter so here, uh, here's 12k? Grab your preferred beverage and settle in.
> 
> If you're interested, Harley's Playlist was also updated ! You can read the third chapter by [CLICKING HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691736/chapters/58976266#workskin) !

Peter blinked out of the trance he’d fallen into since leaving Stark Industries, taking the last few steps across the road to avoid getting hit by the impatient taxi revving up. He raised a hand to his head, thought on what he’d witnessed in the lab, and then continued onwards into the throng of students heading in the direction of Empire State University.

It was then, when he briefly glanced to his left at a lovey-dovey couple who appeared to be talking animatedly, he noticed it: The world around him was muted. The consequences of living – breathing, walking, and talking; the noise of it – was turned down and everything felt... peaceful. He’d never experienced his senses doing something so beneficial in a moment of turmoil from all sides—was this even his senses? Were they taking pity on the hurricane trampling around his head?

Locked in the silences of his present, there was _so much_ Peter suddenly saw, so much he’d been ignoring for his own reality: so many people looked sad, so many people looked dead despite the life ahead of them.

The seconds rushed by as Peter came to a stop in front of the grand steps of his university, taking in the lives around him he’d never know, the people who wouldn’t be here right now with their freedoms if not for what happened – what the Avengers did – on the sight of the Compound just a few short years ago... Peter had never stopped to question whether they’d actually wanted to be saved. Did they want to live? He had—he did. With the quiet dulling his perception, it was a momentary glimpse into a life he’d never thought on, having done much else but survive despite it all—because of it all, really.

They did the right thing, didn’t they? Bringing everyone home?

Peter’s mouth tensed in a smile, and then it immediately fell as he looked into another guy’s face and saw death painted across his drooped eyelids, a hand splayed over a page in his book. Tony’s words from months ago, from a minute spent on a balcony together weighing Peter’s self-worth, hit him instantly: “ _Thing is, Pete, not everyone’s idea of a hero is a guy in spandex._ ”

But how could he be anyone else? At the end of the day, he was Spider-Man: he saved people by swinging in at the right moment and making some smartass remark. That... wasn’t what this guy needed, though; this guy needed someone approachable, someone friendly, someone willing to take them for who they are and work with it instead of against it. Peter could do that; it couldn’t be _that_ difficult. Slowly, finding enough courage to walk towards the other guy, Peter opened his mouth to say hello—but before he got the chance, a voice shouting his name from the top of the stairs interrupted him, “Peter Stark!”

And just like that, the silence was broken.

Peter stared at the dead man walking with his mouth slightly agape, but then quickly corrected it into a lazy smile when the guy blinked up at him with the slow raise of his right eyebrow. “You OK, man?” he asked, shutting his book. “Uh, I think ya friend’s callin’ ya. Bye.” The strange grabbed his backpack and left.

Peter mumbled an excuse for his behaviour, but it went unheard as the guy practically sprinted off to join a small group of waving onlookers. OK. He had friends; never mind, then. Peter straightened up and started climbing the stairs without his normal enthusiasm for learning. “Hey, Harry,” he said, pulling on the strap of his backpack for something to do. He would have gone for a hug or a handshake or something but, unlike with Ned, Peter Stark and Harry Osborn did not have any sort of secret handshake, and they definitely didn’t hug – honestly, they barely ever touched. Harry had a thing about it. Peter didn’t mind. “Nice, uh, nice to see ya, man.”

“Same to you, Pete,” Harry replied with unsubtle ease, motioning to a few other people but not engaging them in conversation. A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips, but it faltered as his eyes took in Peter’s apparently downed expression. “Man, what’s wrong? Did MJ stand you up on a virtual date or something?”

“Wha? Uh, oh—no. No, we’re... We’re taking a bit of a break, actually,” Peter replied, his heart flipping. “New college, new university, ne-new people, different states... We’re taking it easy, opening it up, uh, don’t quite know why I’m telling you this. I mean, my dad doesn’t even know yet.”

Harry laughed in the same way he always did, which was just on the wrong side of cynical. “My father barely acknowledges the existence of much else besides his work, so count yourself lucky Tony is even conscious of you _having_ a girlfriend.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder, but quickly retracted his hand and gave it a shake, as if burned, before smearing it down his expensive jeans. “He says hello, by the way – my father, I mean. He always asks how you are—Wait, so I guess that’s something he’s conscious of.” A small smile widened Harry’s slim face. “He does seem to like that I have a friend—but I guess that was always gonna happen, right? Giants of our industries: better to be friends than foes.” He punched the air in that classic anime-style.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter replied, scratching the back of his neck. He sucked on his bottom lip, raising his eyes to the sky. “Tony says, uh, hi.” _No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t even know we’re friends. Can this day get any worse? Thor, strike me down..._

Actually, he better not think that; with his luck, it could realistically happen.

“Wow! A hello from Tony Stark... Man, I wish I could come over to your place,” Harry said, breathing out a lagging sigh as he adjusted the strap-lengths of his Gucci backpack. “But I guess that would be a bit controversial, all things considered.” He barked out a sudden and unappealing laugh. “It would be like either of us dating Justine Hammer!” Turning into the university building, Harry started walking in his clumsy way, gesturing for Peter to follow him in as he kept on chatting—a little incessantly; like a constant stream of noise almost.

Peter scrunched up his nose at the idea of dating Justine Hammer, Justin Hammer’s daughter, and not just because of their age difference or the monopoly of wealth they’d accumulate, but also at having his name attached to _Hammer Industries_. It felt wrong after the whole Expo thing.

A thought unrelated to his current trauma emerged from the burning pile of shit in his head and Peter caught up to Harry, butting in, “Hey, have you actually met Justine, then?”

Harry’s mouth closed on whatever he was saying, eyes shading in momentary but passing annoyance before his lips pulled into one of those easy, media-loving smiles only heirs of companies and fortunes could give: it was, in its purest form, dismissive of anyone else’s existence. “Of course. I used to think she was my sister for how often she and her mother were around...” His face fell. “That changed a little after the divorce. I think she went into politics.”

“Her mother?” Peter asked as he checked his timetable, glancing over his phone. He pulled up short at the next staircase. “I got double math. Why do I always forget I have double math on Thursdays?”

“Yeah, of course her mother! Jeez. I mean, c’mon, Pete, Justine’s younger than us.” Harry snorted, slowing to a stop beside him. He waved in the other direction. “Then get going. I got—damn, I don’t remember. Not math, though. I’ll see you at lunch, OK?” His face did something weird, twisted a bit differently. “You’ll tell me what’s wrong then, right, Pete?”

Peter blinked a few times. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Sure.” He turned and jogged down the hallway without another glance back or another thought on their abandoned conversation. His neck prickled in the same way it always did when Harry watched him, but nowadays Peter just tried to ignore it.

+

Peter picked up the third of his sandwiches and took a bite as he stared at his phone, summarising the bulk of his homework for math already. He paused, suddenly, taking a look at his sandwich and groaning when he realised he must have taken Tony’s gluten-free bread in his haste. Just as he was about to throw FRIDAY a note to add an extra few loaves to the list (gluten-free and wholemeal), Harry Osborn appeared from around the corner of the cafeteria, slugging from a half-empty bottle of coloured drink.

He practically dragged himself over to their table, shrugging his backpack off to take out his lunchbox. “Man, Pete,” Harry laughed, raising his eyes to Peter. “How much do you eat?”

“No time for breakfast,” Peter replied automatically, one of his well-rehearsed lines to avoid suspicion. It was easier back at Midtown when missing breakfast with Aunt May was so much more likely—especially as he’d been on food tokens at school before meeting Tony.

“Again?” Harry asked, a note of concern in his flat accent. “Is... is everything OK? Y’know, at home?”

“Uh...” Peter blinked several times at him, his mouth opening in a small ‘o’ shape. He raised his eyebrows. “Harry, dude-”

“I know,” Harry replied, shrugging his shoulders as he took out his engraved knife and fork. He’d explained once they were a present from one of his father’s associates, a Mr. Fisk—

Peter inwardly tensed at the thought, but kept his expression outwardly neutral.

“That’s why I’m asking,” Harry continued, ignorant to Peter’s struggles, as he dug into his lunch. “I know how our fathers can get into their work and, maybe, leave us out a little—that’s one of the reasons we’re best friends, right?” A fragile smile tugged at his lips as he looked up at Peter.

“Sure,” Peter replied to ward off the intense emotion building up in Harry’s dark eyes; so like his father’s eyes in that sunken face. They made Peter look away more consciously than with anyone else he knew—usually just looking over someone’s shoulder was enough, but not with Harry. With Harry, he absolutely had to divert his attention away for a moment. “It’s—well. It’s fine, really. Just had some stuff happen yesterday.”

“At cram?” asked Harry, pushing his elbows onto the table. He forked a mouthful of pasta salad into his mouth. “I did try to tell you that cram school is shit, you know. Mine’s better.”

“Yours is too expensive.” That wasn’t the reason: Peter just didn’t want to spend all of his university life with Harry. It wasn’t just risky; it was also incredibly tiring—especially on Harry’s ‘bad days’ when he demanded more attention and needed some help to get him through. Peter was happy to give it to a point, but...

He had a life, y’know.

Harry raised a single eyebrow. “Expensive? Pete, you still think too much like someone from the barrios.”

“Harry!” Peter reprimanded, and Harry gave a full-body laugh. It turned several heads.

While Harry waywardly gloried under the stares, Peter made himself a little smaller, tried to put on the best and most genuine smile he could muster, and went back to eating his lunch. He was soon interrupted by Harry asking, “So, what’s wrong, then? What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Peter insisted, having never even mentioned Harley’s existence to Harry. Not purposefully, just... He wasn’t sure he’d wanted to share Harley, especially since he’d been, for as long as Peter had known Harry, missing. Perhaps, internally, it was also because he thought Harley would feel the same about Harry as Tony did: _Do not get involved with Harry Osborn_. He had to keep their friendship more of a secret because of it.

Sure, Harry had issues but...

Peter struggled to end that thought and instead focused back on Harry’s unimpressed expression. “Just- Avenger stuff,” Peter explained unhelpfully, throwing out a meaningful smile.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry replied, reeling back. “Confidential hero stuff. Got it.” He pointed his fork at Peter and winked. “Are you still moonlighting as Spider-Man’s official photographer?”

“Yep,” Peter replied, flicking his phone’s screen into life. After some encouraging clears of the throat from Harry, Peter clicked about and loaded up some of his most recently-edited and thereby safest photos. Taking a second to recheck them for errors in perspective or colouring, he handed over his premium StarkPhone 9.

“Whoa,” Harry breathed, shaking his head with centred disbelief as he flipped through the various photos Peter had on standby for official posting. “Hey, I can see Oscorp in the background of this one! That’s cool.” He handed it back. “You still have no clue who he is though, right? Spider-Man, I mean.”

“Uh, no. Not even a first name,” Peter said, levelling his last sandwich with the stare of a goat. “He keeps himself well protected. I, uh, I think Dad knows, but...”

Harry hummed. “I assume he’ll have to unmask with the Accords though, right? The latest amendments are all about having a public registry, after all.” He stabbed the last of his pasta with deliberate cruelty—if cruelty to pasta was a thing.

Peter stretched his mouth thinly. “No clue. I don’t deal with Avenger stuff—except for photographs.”

“That’s enough to worry about.” Harry finished his lunch, even though he’d barely had any to begin with. “When I told my father you photographed Spider-Man he was well interested. Spat out his drink an’ all.” Peter just nodded, looking away, and Harry continued after a short, thoughtful pause, “Hey, have you spoken to _Randy Robertson_ , by the way?”

“Randy Robertson?”

“His father works at the Daily Bugle,” said Harry with an offhand shrug and a glance around the area, boredom settling into his tapping fingers and stiff joints. “He’s not my type – bit of a political activist – but I know he’s a Spidey fan, and it can never hurt to better your credits, Pete.”

“Me work at the Bugle? As a photographer?” Peter hadn’t thought his photos were _that_ good, not that he’d entertained a double (triple?) life as a photographer. “... I doubt they’d want a Stark working for them.”

“You say that,” Harry replied, eyeing Peter’s last sandwich. “But I don’t think they’d turn you down—you could just use your dead name.”

“It’s not a dead name,” Peter replied curtly, cutting him a glare. “That’s different, Harry. You know it is—we had to take a class on it and everything. C’mon, man.”

“Sure,” Harry replied, waving his wrist dismissively. He gave Peter a cool stare, and then raised his chin defiantly. “I don’t think what’s wrong is Avengers business,” he sing-songed, eyeing Peter with subtle unease straining against his pulled lip-line. “I’ll found out, Peter. You might be good at keeping secrets but...” Leaning across the table, Harry said beneath his breath, “I’m really good at uncovering them.” He broke immediately into howls of laughter.

Although it was meant to be funny, Harry’s voice sounded anything but and, not for the first time, the hair on the back of Peter’s neck rose and his Spider Sense gave a low but pressing warning in the vein of: _Don’t ignore this too long, Peter, or be the consequences of it on your head_.

+

Peter finished up his last lecture of the day and started tidying away his things with practiced and uncomplicated routine, packing his laptop and notepads into their designated pockets within his backpack. He studied the last diagram Professor Hiddleston had drawn and then flicked his eyes over to where the tall, slinky British teacher was arguing with Professor Rudd over something entirely unrelated to education and somewhere along the lines of whether Rudd had eaten Hiddleston’s lunch which had definitely had his name on it.

Although an interesting altercation between them, Peter left without waiting to see if Rudd would confess or not.

He traipsed through the halls of ESU, raising his eyes to the many achievements of the students dotted around the walls as his classmates wandered past without selecting purpose – and without passing him a glance. It felt... normal—back to normal, anyway. Despite his being a Stark, he was still the notorious nerd without the backing of a consistent friendship circle. In fact, his current college friendships seemed to include all the people who weren’t in any other circle, so that wasn’t new whatsoever.

Peter wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

He still wasn’t totally sure what to feel about his friends – or rather, friend. He missed Ned and their easy chatter; he missed MJ, like, a lot. A lot of people from Midtown Tech who’d graduated into ESU barely glanced his way more than once but to measure his being there. Betty sometimes said hello, and Jason once or twice smiled at him. Charles, who’d found a new friendship group very quickly, said hello once and then forever assumed they’d never met.

And then there was Flash.

Flash had, in a way, trailed Peter since they’d both arrived at ESU on introduction day. He was always there, just hanging around the corner, eyeing him across campus, staring at him during their joint classes. The real funny thing, from Peter’s currently docile humour, was Flash had not approached or spoken to him once. Had Harley scared him that badly? Was he worried Peter had some godly sign of protection over his head? It was getting kinda silly now, this weird back and forth of Flash avoiding him and yet following him all over the university.

Peter had a lot more pressing things to think on than whether to worry about Flash’s involvement in his life and— _Oh, there he is_ , thought Peter as he left through the main doors and spied Flash on the steps, obviously waiting for a ride. “Can’t you drive?”

Flash looked up, bemused, from the video he was watching on YouTube. He paused it before replying, “What?”

“Wait, did I just say that out loud?” Peter blinked.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, you did, Par—uh, Stark.” Flash’s eyes flicked from Peter to the road and back. “And for your information, yes, I do drive—I can drive. I drive really well. I’m just getting picked up today ‘cause my ride’s in the shop.”

“Oh,” Peter replied, contemplating the odd structure of Flash’s sentence and realising the missing factor were the insults. “Sorry. Jus-”

“Blew a wheel and damaged the arches.” Flash lowered his eyes to the side, obviously not wanting to continue the conversation. “Is your brother here? Is he picking you up?”

“My what?” Peter raised an eyebrow, back to reality. “I don’t- I don’t have a... Oh, you mean, you mean Harley.”

Flash tensed at the name, one hand falling to his bag as the other tightened on his phone. “Yeah, him...”

“He isn’t here, Flash,” Peter replied, and visibly saw the tension deflate from Flash’s squared-up shoulders. “And he isn’t my brother.”

“He isn’t?” Flash pinched his lips, turned away, and then turned back to Peter. “... Cousin?”

“We aren’t related; he’s just a... really good friend.” _Who’s like a brother to me_ , Peter added silently to himself, flicking his eyes up and over to the curb. A black car – a Jag – had pulled up tight to edge. A few cars behind it sat the more familiar-looking Audi. “Oh, hey, that must be my car?” He hadn’t realised he was getting picked up – maybe Tony had come around to the idea of heading up to the Compound. “I gotta go, Flash. It was... nice seeing you.” He started down the stairs, clenching his backpack, and gave a quick wave over his shoulder.

To his relief, Flash returned it before refocusing on his phone.

Peter meandered towards the car, applying a burst of energy when the window started rolling down to reveal—

Suddenly, Peter felt himself shoved to one side by a young woman practically powering past him towards the Audi, talking fast and loud in a foreign language (Japanese? Mandarin? Malay?) as the driver leapt out to open her door, wafting her in with a momentary glance over his shoulder at Peter before slipping back into the front seat and pulling out into traffic.

Well. That could have been embarrassing. Peter blinked out of the trance he’d fallen into watching the casual detachment of the girl and her driver, turning instead to swing his backpack off his shoulder and grab out his phone to check his messages. Twelve from Ned (he really needed to answer those) and five from Harry, but no one else had messaged him; not MJ, not Pepper, not Tony or Stephen or Happy. With upwards of twenty contacts in his phone, you’d think he’d have a few more. None of the Avengers had texted him in days – aside from Clint, who’d just wanted to ask how he was. Peter had replied candidly, asked in return, and been left on read.

Story of his life.

In fact, most of the Avengers had left him on read. Even Steve, which was definitely out of character. Peter thought, momentarily, about texting him to ask how Harley was – maybe try to bridge something he shouldn’t, involve himself in the matters of Steve and Tony’s relationship and—yeah, that wouldn’t go well. Nope. He wasn’t doing that.

“Peter! How wonderful to see you again.”

Peter turned on the ball of his foot – the underside of his shoe worn away from training – and flinched at the sight of Norman Osborn slowly seeping out of his car like an alligator from the sewers, his pasty skin stretched ineptly around the strains of a crooked smile. “Oh—Mr. Osborn, sir, uh-” _Pete, you gotta stop with the ‘sir’ thing to some people, all right?_ “I mean—Mr. Osborn. Hello.”

“Mr. Osborn? Oh, come now, Pete. You’re Harry’s _best friend_ , and your father and I, at the very least, are business acquaintances.” He brushed dandruff off his shoulders. “Please, go ahead and call me Norman.” Mr. Osborn strode away from his Jag with the awkward doors, palm held out as if to shake Peter’s hand—but Peter knew better than to believe he would actually want. He didn’t even bothering offering his. For his part, Mr. Osborn didn’t flinch at what might have been perceived as rude by some onlookers.

“Uh, I’m OK, thanks—I was taught to be respectful of my elders,” Peter replied, taking a step back. “How are you, Mr. Osborn?”

The smile on Osborn’s face dropped into a frown. “I’m well, thank you. Yourself? The last time we saw each other was the fundraiser, if I’m remembering correctly.” He straightened up, as if thinking badly of his slouched posture. “You and your father left early—were you unwell?”

 _Yes. And I’m about to be again if you don’t go away_. Peter could already feel the abounding headache, always just slightly in the background with Harry but now, with the elder Osborn, Peter could feel it practically smashing into his head. “Uh, yeah, I-I, I... I get these headaches, and they just knock me out.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Osborn placed a hand over his heart, looking genuinely pained for Peter. “I completely understand. I suffer from my own ill health, as I’m sure Harry must have mentioned.” He leant closer. “You do look a little pale now. Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone?”

Peter leant back, dizziness splitting his head in two. _DANGER. DANGER_ his Spider Sense screamed. He managed to swallow down the bile threatening to overspill from his lips and slowly brought himself back under control, taking in a few deep breaths before answering, “I’m fine,” he tried, though the assurance fell flat even to his own ears.

“Do you have medication? Do you need some?” Osborn looked around campus, eyeing the students leaving for home. “Is anyone picking you up? You can’t walk back to SI in your state—I know you aren’t living on campus.”

“Uh-” No. No one was picking him up. Peter grappled with his phone again, checked his texts, but there wasn’t anything he could even fake. “I-I can make it, don’t-”

“Nonsense!” Osborn said, harshness infiltrating his even tone. “If you were to collapse on the street and Stark learnt I let you wander off—Well, it wouldn’t do. No. Peter, come with me—I’ll fetch Harry and we’ll take you back to your Tower, OK?” He waved Peter towards his car, already walking off to find his son through the students collecting on the sidewalk.

Peter stood there, the Jag just down the line of cars, as the tension cleared from his head and he could breathe again. He stood in slight disarray, praying to whatever Gods were out there for Happy to arrive – even though he wouldn’t; even though he’d long since stopped shepherding Peter to and from the Tower at Peter’s own insistence of his being able to do some Spider-Manning or take the tram—or just walk. It wasn’t _that_ far away; he was eighteen, not eight!

Before he had a chance to make a run for it, despite the persistent vertigo clinging to the edge of his head, Osborn strode back towards him with Harry in tow, their clumsy steps mimicking one another’s. “Pete!” Harry called, breaking into a jog. “Father said you aren’t feeling well! What’s wrong? Is this about- is this about that thing?”

“No, no. No, Harry, I’m fine – really. Mr. Osborn, please, I’m OK. I’ll just give Tony a call and-”

Osborn swept an arm through the air between them and said, “No. Stark would do the very same for Harry, I’m sure.” His words carried subdued confidence, his set-back eyes drifting to the side as if not quite believing it. “Come on. Into the car—Peter, are you on medication for this? Should we stop and get you something?”

“I-I’m not, not really,” Peter replied, eyeing the car with fragile distaste as his head started jack-hammering. He was practically forced into the back by a firm push on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this,” Peter tried a last time as Harry slid in beside him and Osborn settled in the front behind the wheel, pressing a button to start the car.

“Father, can we stop and get Peter some pain medication?” Harry asked, ignoring Peter’s pleas. He sat forward in his seat as Osborn started driving, foregoing his seatbelt. “If I know which it is that helps best, it wouldn’t be any problem for me to keep some spare in my backpack.”

“That’s a fantastic idea,” said Osborn, his eyes on the road. “I—... You know what, I know a great, uh, ‘pharmacist’ just down the road from Oscorp. Do your seatbelts up, will you? We don’t need a repeat of the Justine incident, Harry.”

Seatbelted in with Harry’s pushy help, Peter sat far into the corner of the car as sudden and devastating sickness clung to his stomach and clawed his head into bits. Osborn started driving quickly – definitely above the speed limit – in the direction of home before diverting down a side-street. Peter only just about stopped himself from throwing up all over the leather seats as sweat budded on his forehead and chills raked through his body, his consciousness hazing along the power-up, power-down drive between blackness and too bright—what the Hell was this? Was his Spider Sense this wacked around Osborn? No. No. This had to be something else; this had to be to do with—

 _God, I can’t think_.

+

“Well this, this, well, this is fascinating, Norman,” said the man on Osborn’s left, his portly shape and constant fidgeting taking up most of the cramped room. “I don’t see you in months, and then you-you, you come in here with Stark’s son asking if, if, if I have any clue about pain medication! My degree is in the _nuclear sciences_ , Norman.”

“I understand, Otto, but the Stark boy is my son’s best friend and I just didn’t feel safe taking him to anyone else in this condition,” explained Osborn, gesturing at Peter’s shivering form in the lopsided chair. “You prescribed my medication; surely you have something for _our Pete_ ’s pain? Look at him; I thought he was about to keel over in the car.”

“Then why,” began Doctor Otto in a levelled voice, turning to his mismatch of a work station. “Didn’t you, you, you take him to the hospital? Or back to Stark Industries? For all I know, I could be overstepping my, my, my-my mark giving him anything, Norman.”

Osborn straightened his jacket. “I have my reasons, Otto.”

Peter sat slumped forwards in the uneven chair, arms wrapped around his churning stomach as Harry’s hand rubbed circles over his back. When they’d arrived at the house, Peter hadn’t been in any place to speak—but on the inside his Spider Sense was ringing like the damn Liberty Bell and Big Ben combined into one earth-shattering pulse of constant and nerve-shuddering noise. The sickness, since the car ride, had amplified and now he could barely breathe for the pain. “Strange,” he managed in a gasp. “Doc—Doctor Strange.” He grabbed for Harry’s coat and felt the other’s hand wrap around it in a grip unlike anything Peter had felt in a long time—the strength was overwhelming! Holy shit!

It practically squeezed Peter’s grip off of the coat, pushing straight into his bones. “Father,” Harry called, his hold not dropping. “I know Otto is your go-to, but Doctor Strange – do you remember him? From the fundraiser?”

“Doctor Strange? You mean the one who was trailing us all evening?”

“Yeah. I think he might be Peter’s _godfather_.”

“He’s that famous neurosurgeon, isn’t he? The one who went mad, _supposedly_ ,” Osborn replied as Doctor Otto continued sorting through his cabinets. “I wouldn’t have a clue where he is or how to reach him—because, of course, he doesn’t work at the hospital anymore. And I’m not driving around New York with Peter in this state.” He muttered something like ‘ _my car_ ’ beneath his breath.

“Maybe you, you, you should just take him home,” Doctor Otto said, correcting his glasses.

Peter nodded slowly, his vision blurry and out of focus. Thankfully, he didn’t need to concentrate on the voices at this point; his Spider Sense was doing it for him. Doctor Otto – the portly man, wearing shaded glasses inside his already-dark-as-hell room (or whatever it was; it wasn’t exactly a sanitary workspace but, then again, the man wasn’t a medical doctor) – spoke faster than anyone Peter had ever met; his stutter, although noticeable, seemed more like a characteristic quirk. It sounded more like something he kept manually doing, kept reminding himself to keep up the appearance of. Maybe he just couldn’t slow down his thought process any other way?

“And have Stark on me for not helping his son?” Osborn huffed, shaking his head. “The man detests me enough already, Otto. Please – you must have some strong pain medication. Look; he’s _suffering_.”

Although the words were kind, Osborn’s tone was not. He almost looked to be smiling as he watched Peter squirm and, once again, Peter had to wonder if he remembered, if he knew exactly who Peter was—if he’d connected the dots and this was more to do with punishment. _Does he remember me? Does he? God, I, I can’t do this right now_.

Peter raised a hand to shield his eyes from Osborn’s line of sight.

A few moments later, one of Doctor Otto’s grimy hands appeared in front of Peter’s face, brandishing a couple of very ordinary-looking pills. “Here.”

“What are they?” Harry asked.

“What, what do you think they are?” Doctor Otto bristled. “They’re pain medication. Look, here’s the packet—you can buy them from any drugstore in Midtown.”

“... You don’t have anything stronger?” Osborn pushed.

“I-I’m not risking that, Norman,” the doctor huffed, pushing the pills into Harry’s hand. “He’s not one of my ‘patients’, and thank you but the, the, the last thing I need is, is the Avengers com-com-coming in here to look at my, my, my practices!”

Peter took the packet from Doctor Otto’s hand, grimacing at the slightly sticky feeling from where his fingers had been, and looked it over. It was definitely just normal pain medication—in fact, it was the same high-end brand Pepper used. Looking from the packet to Doctor Otto and then around the room, Peter briefly summoned the thought _how does he pay for this? It’s like twenty bucks_. He shifted his eyes about the confined space, catching sight of the cabinet stock piled with the same pain medications he’d just been given—packets of them!—there had to be forty-odd packs there. That was about 800 dollars-worth of pills.

_Holy shit – is Osborn running, like, a drug smuggling ring?_

“Can I take a packet of that, Dr. Octavius? I-I mean, uh, Otto?” asked Harry, and the doctor immediately threw him one without so much as trying to hide the enormous amount of medicine from view. “Thank you.”

... _Wait_. Peter blearily looked up at the man, and then across to Harry—almost on the verge of asking for him to repeat the name. He couldn’t have heard right—this couldn’t be—no way...

This couldn’t be Doctor Otto Octavius? The mad scientist guy? The one who – ‘rumour had it – murdered his assistant and five of his co-workers in one of the biggest scientific cover-ups of recent history?

Peter’s blood ran cold at the thought and he quickly scooped the pills from Harry’s hand, swallowing them dry. Harry offered him his water a second later and Peter drained half of it in one glug.

Osborn and Doctor Otto’s conversation silted. “Maybe he’s just dehydrated,” said the doctor suddenly, his voice doing the equivalent of flat-lining. “Happens more often than you’d think; sometimes those, those pangs of hunger are actually because you’re thirty.”

“He ate a huge lunch,” Harry put in suddenly, his hand staying securely on Peter’s back and pressing warmth through his hoodie.

“Well, there you go,” drawled Doctor Otto, his stutter gone as he raised his glasses and squinted – as if the very small amount of light in the room had him in absolute pain. He dropped the glasses back over his eyes and turned to his workstation. “Take a packet home with you, Mr. Stark, and drink lots of fluids. I’m sure you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you home,” said Osborn, raising his eyes to share a long look with the doctor—or, rather, the mad scientist part-timing as a private doctor to the Oscorp owner _apparently_. “Thank you, Otto. Did you receive my email the other night, by the way?”

“I did.”

Osborn nodded, turning to Harry and Peter. He beamed at them from his cruel mouth. “Harry, will you take Peter to the car and wait with him? I’ll just be a minute.”

“Yes, father. C’mon, Pete, let’s go.” Harry applied his strength to Peter’s shoulder again and, still in awe of the power in the other’s fingers, Peter stood up without a word and allowed himself to be led out of the rundown shack of a house. As they passed the living room, Peter chanced a glance into what essentially amounted to a drug den by the wafting smell alone. “Peter,” said Harry, tugging him along. “It’s best not to stray in the doc’s house; it’s been a bit of a weird place since the, uh, the accident.”

Although Peter was half-tempted to ask just what that accident was, he also wasn’t stupid. Harry had messed up already by playing to his politeness and tripping on Doctor Octavius’s name; the last thing he probably wanted now was to let Peter explore. Just a glance in Harry’s face told Peter he was on the rocks for what he was continuing to say – to mention an accident was risky, to bring Peter – the heir to Stark Industries – here in the first place was more than just a stupid idea; it was practically asking for an investigation, especially when he had ties to the Avengers.

And giving him pills? Yeah, they could have screwed up _big time_ —but did that mean they _trusted_ Peter not to squeal to Tony about what he’d seen?

Peter was under no illusion he would definitely be getting a ‘quick chat’ in the car from Mr. Osborn. It wouldn’t be like the one he had with the Vulture because Peter could have walked away from that one without doing anything, could have forgotten everything he’d seen and knew; he could have continued on as Spider-Man so long as he stayed out of Toomes’s way and still been perfect Peter Parker.

But there was no Spider-Man protection here. There was just Peter’s problem with how he was going to deal with everything happening around him—and his damned Sense was still making everything difficult.

Harry bustled them both quickly into the car. “So long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves, we should be perfectly safe,” said Harry, gesturing to the other rundown houses and apartment complexes around them. A few moments of silence rushed by before Harry was at it again: “So, is this connected to that stuff?”

“What stuff?” Peter asked, mostly finding himself in control. He wanted to crack open a window, though; Osborn’s cologne was clawing at his throat.

“You know – the stuff you wouldn’t tell me about earlier. Is it because of this medical issue you _obviously_ have?” Harry’s face fell out of the corner of Peter’s vision. “How come you never told me, Pete? We’re best friends; if you need me to keep some pills or an inhaler in my bag for you, I would.” He fidgeted, interlocking his fingers and then pulling them apart violently. “I know I’m a bit – much, sometimes.”

“I’m OK, Harry,” Peter said firstly, resting his forehead against the window and then pulling back when he realised it would likely leave a greasy stain; he wiped his hand across it, but what was done was done. “You’re fine. I’m sorry about this, by the way.”

“It’s all cool, Pete,” Harry replied, his hand gently sliding on to Peter’s shoulder—getting more and more comfortable touching him, it seemed. Peter tried not to shrug it off, despite the turn of his stomach. “So, _are_ you gonna tell me about what was making you so strung up earlier?”

Peter turned his eyes on the road as an old beat-up Ford hobbled past. “It’s... It’s personal.”

“We’re _best friends_.”

 _It’s still personal_. Peter chewed his lip. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone, OK?” He ran a hand over his hair, surprised at how clear-headed he was becoming. His metabolism would usually burn straight through pills, but these ones were definitely doing something; he was maybe a bit drowsy, but everything was feeling suddenly a lot more manageable—sure, they weren’t as good as his personal ones at home, but they weren’t shit either; maybe the price did matter. “This... guy, who is like a brother to me, he went missing back in April—well, I mean, actually, he was kidnapped. It was my fault.” He wanted to get that in there already now, before Harry came to the conclusion himself. “We found him last night. Alive.”

“What? That’s great news!” Harry exclaimed, his smile all-encompassing for a short second before it dropped back into neutral. “So, why’re you so upset?”

“Because dad and Steve – Steve Rogers, you know, Captain America – got into an argument about it and, uh, they aren’t on the best of terms anyway—because of the Accords, and because Mr. Rogers blames dad for the kidnapping—well, for not doing enough to find, uh, Harley.” Peter wiped his nose.

“Wait, you—you mean Harley Keener?” Harry asked, his blank expression shifting into one of hasty concern.

Peter scrunched up his nose. “I didn’t know they’d made his surname public.”

Harry blinked at him a few times, his voice flattening out as he said, “He’s not a minor, right? Of course they did—I, uh, I saw it in the news a few months ago. They didn’t mention anything to do with the Avengers, though.” Despite the high-tech outfitting of the Jag in the front, the back’s windows were still manual and Harry cracked his open after a few prolonged seconds, hissing about the stiffness of the handle under his breath. “How-how long has he been missing, did you say?”

“Six months,” Peter said immediately, glad to finally be getting this off his chest—despite the odd reaction from Harry that Peter would totally look into later. “Actually, it was the day I got, uh, announced.”

“I remember that,” Harry said absentmindedly, and then quickly refocused on the subject. “Anyway. You’ve found him now! That’s great news. Surely Tony and Captain America can put those things behind them for a bit, yeah? While Harley’s in recovery.”

“That’s the thing.” Did Peter want to go into this? Did he want to share what he’d overheard in the lab? He couldn’t share all of it, obviously. He definitely couldn’t share the bits about the _something’s coming_. “There’s... No one’s telling me anything – about Harley, or much else, really. I mean, I, uh, I don’t expect to get told much about the Accords, anyway...” Peter slid his eyes to the side and then quickly faced Harry again; worried the stereotypical idea of a liar would see Peter undone from his remark.

Of course he needed to know about the damn Accords—even with everything else going on, General Ross wasn’t going away anytime soon and, despite some countries pulling out of Accords (notably the UK, Italy and Czechia), it was still a hot-button issue—especially with voters. There was even a summit in a few weeks to discuss the changes in ed. 8.

He’d argued it out with Tony a few times in the past, asked to be included in discussions and involved in the process, but Peter had yet to be officially allowed to join anything past the more casual meetings. Instead, all he could do was read the Accords himself and work out exactly what he was going to do about them: he wasn’t wild about a public register (which seemed... very unsafe?), and the thought of unmasking was... not something he personally wanted to think about right now.

He couldn’t think about it, anyway; he was talking to Harry right now, and Harry only knew the outer layer of Peter Stark’s life. “Bu-but I just thought—I thought I’d get told something – anything! Harley’s recovering upstate at the Compound with the rest of the Avengers and I’m just – just here! Doing _nothing_... I mean, Tony hasn’t even told me how he is; I had to _overhear_ -”

“What did you overhear?” Harry interrupted, pyramiding his fingers.

Peter wetted his lips and then wiped them dry uncomfortably. “Well... He’s apparently really injured... Buut there’s... There’s something strange going on, too.”

Harry’s hand folded over Peter’s. “Hey. You can tell me anything, Pete.” He leant close, and Peter leant away. “We’re best friends. I’m not gonna tell anyone, especially if it’s something that’s upset you.”

Pulling his hand from Harry’s, discomfort in the applied pressure to his fingers, Peter let out a sigh and said, “Well, I heard dad and – and Doctor Strange talking about Harley this morning, and they were saying Harley was injected with liquid vibranium which is, I mean, that’s kinda cool—the end product, not the torture or the pain or-”

“Peter,” said Harry, dragging Peter back to the point of the conversation. “I get it. It does sound cool—vibranium’s amazing. I bet he could fall sixty storeys and walk it off—but never mind that. That’s obviously not what’s bothering you.”

“Well, no. Dr.—I mean, the doctor looking after Harley wants him...” Was this a good subject to discuss with Harry? Was it even something people discussed openly? “’Psychologically analysed’, and Tony won’t do that.” Peter shrugged, suddenly not so sure where his real hang up was—maybe it was just the ‘not being told anything’ line; maybe he really did just take issue with being kept in the dark all the damn time. All he’d told Harry so far was just deflating from his eavesdropping and, though he’d felt so sick at the time hearing Tony and Strange talk about the injections and the pain Harley had been through and the possible ramifications, it all felt oddly secondary now as he’d begun to put his thoughts in order.

Suddenly the ‘something’s coming’ thing felt a lot more serious.

_And Judas- who is Judas? What is Judas? Judas-_

Harry nodded, sitting back into his chair with a hand to his chin. “Interesting. Is Harley, like, a psychopath or something?”

“Uhmm... I don’t think so.” Peter drew his expression into itself. “I mean... I don’t know – maybe? I mean, no, I, I don’t think so...”

“He could be,” Harry replied, curiosity infiltrating his usually stoic tone. “Tony might not want him _psychologically analysed_ because he doesn’t want Harley tarnished with that on his medical records for the rest of his life. Finding a job probably isn’t easy if you’ve got a doctor’s note reading something like ‘diagnosed psycho’ on it.”

“I... don’t think it works like that.” Peter sucked in his lips, setting Harry with an unimpressed stare.

Harry shrugged. “OK. Maybe a sociopath?”

“Harry.”

“What? I’m just saying – that _is_ weird. What if those injections messed with his head or something? What if he has brain damage?” Harry stared at Peter. “He could be really dangerous, Peter. He could hurt you. Maybe there’s a reason Tony doesn’t want you to know anything about it; maybe he’s waiting to see the _psychological damage_ so he knows the course you guys need to take with Harley.”

Peter started shaking his head. “Harley wouldn’t hurt me.”

“You say that now, but how do you know that – after months of torture?”

“I just-” Suddenly, out of the corner of Peter’s eye, he spied a tall figure in the rearview mirror of the car walking along the street—he _knew_ that person. He knew exactly who that was, that was—

“Oh, hey, don’t sweat him,” said Harry, breaking off their conversation much to Peter’s relief. Harry opened the car door and leant out to wave his hand at the figure. “That’s just _Lonnie Lincoln_ —he’s one of my father’s business associates. Hey, Lonnie!”

Lonnie paused in his step and turned fully to face the car – an albino man, he struck a hulking figure to distinguish him from all else who prowled along in the same sly manner. He raised a hand, his slim face and thin lips drawing into a smile, and greeted Harry in return, “Hello, Mr. Harry Osborn.” He spoke just slightly below normal vocal ranges, but the power behind him was just as immense as anyone else.

 _Holy shit that’s Tombstone. Oh, my God – that’s Tombstone!_ Peter ducked down, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. His Spider Sense sent another pulse of energy through his head warning him in no uncertain terms to _RUN FOR YOUR DAMN LIFE PETER_ which, for a domino effect of reasons, he had to ignore.

“My father’s in the house with Otto right now,” said Harry.

“Oh? He doesn’t usually travel this far out.”

“Neither do you,” Harry teased. “Harlem all right?”

“It’s fine,” Lonnie replied with something of a laugh. “Mr. Fisk sends his regards to you, Harry.”

“How’s Richie?” asked Harry.

“Recovering well,” said Lonnie, though he remained vague on the details even as Harry pressed. He bid the younger Osborn goodbye a moment later and walked up the pathway to the house, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

 _Fisk?_ thought Peter, before realisation struck him and he nearly face-palmed himself for his stupidity: _Wilson Fisk? As in... Kingpin?_ Shit. Shit. _Shit_. Peter’s thoughts ground to a halt and another dizzy spell had him falling against the seat with a gritted groan, the pain medicine finally burning off.

“Pete? Pete! You OK? Oh—yeah, maybe staying in a hot car wasn’t a good idea. Hang on, I’ll—I’ll get my father and he’ll drive you home, OK? OK. Don’t move! I’ll be right back!”

+

Harry returned with his father only minutes after leaving Peter alone to catch some much-needed breath. Despite the neighbourhood looking grim, Peter was a born and bred New Yorker and it didn’t scare him one bit to sit in the car with the door open to the road, breathing in the congested air of the city’s borough with his hood up. He’d figured out they had to be in The Bronx by the location, but unless he saw signage he wasn’t about to fool himself into thinking he knew exactly where he was—which was bothersome, but there you go.

On the way back to Manhattan, Peter kept his focus on the directions they were taking, allowing his mind to record the distances as they rolled along through the gradually increasing traffic. Finally, the Tower came into view and Peter catalogued his thoughts for later, opening himself up more eagerly to the conversations of the car.

He still felt sick, though. As soon as Osborn had settled in the front seat and begun driving, Peter had been nursing a constantly-erupting headache. It hadn’t helped his location tracking, and at one point he’d had to put his head between his knees for the noise of it all and concentrate hard on the gentle rocking motions of the Jag to configure his way through New York’s streets. Thankfully though he definitely had something of an idea of where the shack of a house was now, if he ever had need to remember.

“So, Peter,” said Osborn, his voice taking on that gentle but pressing nature of ‘we’re gonna have a quick chat’. “If you don’t mind... My business friends are, to be frank, my business friends—and they like to be kept out of the mainstream, if you get my drift? I’m sure Tony has a few of those, too.” His fingers spidered across his steering well, tapping impatiently against the beaten-up and sun-exposed leather. “So, if you could be a real _pal_ and not mention having met Otto or seen my _very good friend_ Lonnie, that would be extraordinarily nice of you.” He looked over his shoulder when he came to a red light, his thin face stretched in a smile. “How’re you feeling now, by the way? Better?”

“Better,” Peter croaked.

“Good! Great!” Osborn tapped his fingers against the wheel. “So, you don’t need me to come in with you, do you? I think my dropping you off is going to look bad enough.”

“Oh, it will,” Peter replied, eyeing the hustling sidewalks; most of the people on them were SI employees leaving for home—Wait, was it really that time already? Then he’d missed cram, and that meant Tony would have gotten a notification. Confusion as to why he hadn’t heard from his dad swam through Peter’s head and he quickly ducked a hand into his backpack, taking out his phone to see if Tony—oh, _shit_. “Yea-yeah, you-you can drop me anywhere along here, Mr. Osborn—the walk will do me good.”

“Are you sure?” asked Harry, as Osborn shrugged and started pulling into the side—using a taxi rank without a care for the automatic fine he’d get through the mail in a week or so. “We can take you straight to the door.”

Peter grappled with his backpack and said, “No, no. Really. You guys’ve done so much, I mean, thank you Mr. Osborn, and Harry thanks for – for being my best friend.” Although Peter felt the title didn’t strictly belong to Harry – it was Ned’s, really – the momentary smile nearly had him gasping in relief at having said the right thing for now.

Tony was right. The Osborns were Trouble with a capital ‘T’.

Speaking of Tony—

“That’s my phone,” Peter said, as _The Imperial March_ from _Star Wars_ started up. “It-it’s Tony. I gotta take this – he’s worried.”

“Of course he is,” said Osborn, downing his window. “But Peter, just a word... What did you think of my friends?”

Peter had been here before. He frowned, keeping his seriousness in check. “What friends, Mr. Osborn?”

The man’s face slid into a big grin; the biggest expanse of positive emotion Peter had seen from him yet. “That’s the right answer, Pete.” Leaning out the window, Osborn raised a hand and practically raked it through Peter’s hair a couple of times. “Get home safe now!”

“Bye, Pete!” Harry called from the back as Osborn put his foot down and sped off.

Peter finally answered his phone, watching the Jag do an illegal turn before hightailing it down the way it came. “Hey, Tony,” he said, his head already starting to clear—although he definitely wasn’t at all hungry for once.

“ _Fourteen_ ,” Tony said lowly from the other side of the phone, bypassing a greeting. “ _Do not ‘Hey, Tony’ me, Pete. I’ve called you fourteen times—where are you, kid? I’ve had Hap running around with the car trying to find you for hours_.”

“You can’t do that; that’s not good for his health,” Peter replied immediately, eyes widening at the implications. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing from the rough treatment Osborn had given it. “Uh, anyway—I’m just on my way back to the Tower, now.”

“ _Nuh-uh, Pete. That’s not an answer. Where the Hell have you been?_ ”

“Technically, that wasn’t your question.”

“ _Peter, can you not do this? I have a heart condition_.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes at what very basically amounted to an excuse nowadays. “Your only heart condition is me and Morgan.” Waiting for the laugh that didn’t come, Peter straightened his dipped mouth into a line. “I’m sorry I flunked cram.”

“ _Kid, honestly, I couldn’t care if you flunked an entire week of cram. I want to know why you did, and where you’ve been – please_ ,” Tony replied, a sulk in his voice—even over the phone. From the scribbling sound, Peter assumed he was writing something—so he wasn’t even giving Peter his full attention. Huh. “ _Look, I have other ways of finding out, Pete—you know that. Now, are you gonna tell me how much you’ve screwed the pooch, or do I gotta go looking for the bitch and her puppies?_ ”

Peter bit his lip. “Not your best analogy.”

“... _OK. So, looks like we’re doing it this way, huh? Wanna be a big man suddenly, huh? Fine. Fine. I can work with that—But right now, you better get your ass back here because you are grounded_.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Peter gaped, stopping in the middle of the street. He stepped into the side, staring down at the pavement. “You’re—you can’t be serious, Dad.”

“ _Ooh, it’s ‘dad’ suddenly, is it? Peter, c’mon, kid, I just want to know you were safe! I can’t- I can’t let something happen to ya, kid_.”

Peter forced himself to continue walking towards SI; the building loomed over him, casting a shadow as the sun dipped behind it and causing Peter to watch more carefully the people surrounding him. He pulled up his hood. “I was safe, all right! I was- I was with my friend, and we just—we lost track of them.”

That wasn’t enough for Tony. “ _Which friend, bambino? It wasn’t Osborn’s kid, was it?_ ”

His delayed response might have sealed his fate, but Peter quickly fought back at hearing the exhausted exhale and the _Peter-_ beginning. “It was just a friend, Tony! You can’t- you- ugh. I don’t need to tell you everything, you’re not-”

“ _Pete, if you’re gonna end that sentence with ‘not my father’ then I have some news for you, kiddo_ ,” Tony interrupted humourlessly, dropping his pencil (pen?) on the other side of the phone and, from the squeak of his chair, standing up. “ _You know, I actually have a few things to say to you, Pete—I was talking to FRIDAY earlier after Bleecker Street left and,_ apparently, _we had a little spider in the lab this morning after I told you – after I very clearly told you not come down here_.”

Peter’s blood might have run cold, but his temper only grew hotter as their conversation continued. “When did you tell me that?” he asked, getting to the main doors and pushing in—brushing off the grandiose look from the security guard, who backed off immediately when Peter dropped his hood.

“ _... Well, I think FRIDAY made it clear_ -”

 _Caught you_. “Yeah, you didn’t exactly tell me,” Peter interrupted, moving through the gates and ignoring FRIDAY’s cheerful greeting and her acknowledgement of who he was to her. He walked into the hall, step-beat-step, as light on his feet as a dancer, and waited for FRIDAY to bring down the elevator. Tony continued speaking, but Peter largely ignored it now, instead choosing to go through his texts as he waited for the elevator to arrive at the penthouse floor.

Harry had texted him since they’d dropped Peter off on the curb. The thought caused a notch of sickness in his stomach, but he tried to push it back down in fear of Tony noticing anything too ‘off’ about him. Peter absently brushed his thumb over the text as Tony continued to rattle off about Peter eavesdropping. Honestly, he had half a mind to go off on one like on the rooftop, but that didn’t end well the last time – what with Tony taking the suit back. They definitely did not need a repeat of that tonight.

Peter instead let himself smile at seeing the message from Harry:

 **Harriet** : hey pete heres an idea. If ur still pissed at tony 4 not telling u about harley y dont we go to the compound together??? I could drive u up there next caturday  
**Petra** : dude tony’s grounding me  
**Harriet** : so?? U?? Never?? Go?? Out?? When?? Ur?? Grounded?? Dude just tell him ur goin to like my funeral or something lmfao  
**Petra** : my dude thx i will totally consider

Peter honestly couldn’t remember what reference they were going for with those names.

The elevator _ding_ ed. Peter quickly dropped his phone into his backpack as the doors slid back to reveal Tony standing there with his arms crossed, though his eyes betrayed the worry his anger was masking. He clicked off his phone, and Peter inwardly cursed at realising they’d still been on a call. “Uh,” he began, stepping into the penthouse. “Hi, Dad.”

“Don’t ‘hi, dad’ me,” Tony replied coolly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “FRI, scan Pete, would you? Check—check everything.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“FRI!” Peter exclaimed, his mouth dropping open. “No. No! Don’t! That’s a total invasion of my privacy! I’m _fine_.”

Tony hummed. “Oh, really? Your face tells a different tale, kid.” He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, the dark bags beneath his eyes becoming more and more pronounced. In the unforgiving silence to follow, Tony looked Peter up and down blearily before he relented from his stance and pulled his son into a hug. His hand smoothed into Peter’s curls, untangling a knot through gentle pressure. “FRI, you got a report for me, girl?”

“Peter has suffered no physical injuries, Boss, other than some light scraping across his scalp which appears to be from fingernails.” Tony immediately started fussing with Peter’s hair, and the student couldn’t help but feel just slightly ridiculous. Surely Osborn couldn’t have inflicted that much damage? Did the guy even have nails?

“She’s right,” Tony muttered, whether to himself or Peter it was uncertain. “What the Hell happened, Pete? You aren’t going to any weird clubs, are you? Do we need to have another _talk_.”

“God no,” Peter replied, slumping forwards into the renewed safety of his father’s arms and relishing the unsubtle smell of machinery clinging to his tee-shirt. “And I’m not going to clubs, ugh—No, I—it was just, just someone, uh, a guy—he just raked a hand through my hair; I didn’t realise-”

“Who are you letting touch you like that?” Tony asked, pulling back. “Peter, these are really red marks; this wasn’t just a petting – although I don’t even like the idea of that. This looks _painful_ , and it’s incredibly inappropriate—this isn’t a teacher, is it? Who did this, bambino?”

Peter looked at Tony’s shoes. “You don’t know him,” he lied through gritted teeth, knowing he definitely wasn’t fooling Tony. He’d always loved the steadfast protection he felt from his dad – even before – but right now it just felt needlessly annoying and a little much. “It doesn’t matter.”

Tony’s hands steadied on Peter’s shoulders. “Uh, I think I’ll be the judge of whether it matters or not, Pete. Who did this?”

Peter remained defiantly silent, despite the small voice in the back of his head telling him he should say something, that it had felt a little invasive and pushy when Norman Osborn leant out of his window and _marked him up_ , like taking a sharpie to some piece of furniture. He knew it wasn’t appropriate, but he could deal with it; he didn’t need to be babied. “It doesn’t matter!”

Immediately releasing his hold on Peter, Tony said, “OK. Fine.” Blowing out a sigh, Tony looked at the ceiling and asked, “Anything else, FRI?”

“No, Boss.”

“OK. OK, good.” Tony gripped his left wrist. “I’m sorry, bambino. I’ve just been worried about you—you’re usually on your phone all the time and this time, this one time when you don’t show for cram, is one of the first times I’ve just not been able to reach you at all. Where the hell is your watch? Didn’t it alert you?”

Peter looked down at his bare wrist. “I must have forgotten it this morning.”

“Forgot it? Pete, you can’t just forget a watch,” said Tony, eyeing Peter’s backpack with a level of distrust he usually only gave to sandwiches made by Sam. “You didn’t even come back here after college let out.”

“I didn’t,” Peter agreed. “I got- I got distracted.”

Tony’s eyes flashed at the word. “Pete, don’t tell me you went wandering after a _butterfly_.”

“I’m eighteen, not eight.”

“Well, you haven’t exactly acted like one.”

“And how’s an eighteen-year-old meant to act?” Peter shot back, stepping away from Tony’s space to open his own, taking in a few deep breaths to settle the drum of his heart and the pounding of his head. “Are they meant to go out drinking and partying ‘til four in the morning? Am I meant to go out to bars and clubs and trash the Stark name? Is that what you want, Dad?”

“Kid-”

Peter motioned a cross with his arms. “No. Not that tone—that’s the tone you used on the, on the rooftop.”

Tony balled his hands into fists. “Maybe because you’re still acting like the fourteen-year-old-”

“I was fifteen-”

“Uh-uh! The adult is talking!” Tony raised his voice, palm up for silence. Begrudgingly, Peter complied. Tony opened his mouth a few times to continue, but stopped every time, as if unsure suddenly how he was meant to parent—and it made Peter bubble in subdued laughter at seeing the slow fade of anger from his dad’s eyes, but he shut up immediately when he recognised _disappointment_ instead. Finally, Tony dropped his head and said, “Go to your room.”

“Wha-”

“Go to your room, Pete. You’re grounded.”

“You can’t ground me,” said Peter, lips in a straight and unyielding line. “I’m eighteen. You can’t rule over my life—I’m not a damn _kid!_ God, you-you just never listen to me! I thought we were meant to communicate, Dad! I thought that was what you wanted! I, I just want to understand! You want to know where I was? I was in The Bron—Hey! You can’t just walk away – Dad! Dad! _Tony!_ ”

Tony came to a stop at the door to the stairwell, turning to Peter. “You’re still the kid. You’re _my_ kid, Pete, and there are some things I don’t want you to understand – not yet, anyway; not while I-”

Peter took in a breath and cut through Tony’s attempts at civility, “You mean about how Harley’s a psychopath? You mean about – about how he’s dangerous? You mean how he’s indestructible because of the vibranium? You mean—you mean about whatever Strange has seen? His ‘visions’, you called them?” Peter grabbed the sleeve of Tony’s sweater. “Why won’t you tell me? I could help, Tony, I could- I could...”

Tony went uncharacteristically non-hyper-verbal, his eyes shading across with dark as he threw up his guard and slowly unpicked Peter’s fingers from his sweater. “Peter,” he said with the end of the conversation in sight. “Harley is not- God, kid, he’s not a psychopath. He’s not—not dangerous to you.”

“That doesn’t answer my other questions.”

“Maybe I don’t _have_ answers to your other questions.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but stopped. This was... This was pointless. If Tony didn’t want to talk to him—if he didn’t want Peter to know then he was wasting his breath here; there was no point to continuing this line of thought. You can’t beat a river into submission, he’d heard it said.

Taking in a long breath, Peter opened his arms and replied, “OK.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “OK?”

“Yep. OK.” Peter uncrossed his arms. “You don’t have the answers. I accept that.”

“... You do?” Tony asked, tilting his head to the left. “Oh, I see what you’re doing: you’re trying to take the higher ground. Well. All right, then, lemme tell you something, kid: the high ground is where the wind is.” With that subtle mystery delivered, Tony stepped around Peter to face the elevator, but paused to take his shoulder. “Peter.”

Peter raised his head a little, eyebrow up.

Tony dropped his hold. “Stay out of the lab.” He strode past, eyeing Peter’s backpack momentarily before calling for FRIDAY to open the elevator. “Dinner’s in the oven, Pete. Pep’s working until late – oh, and you’re still grounded by the way—whatever grounding actually is; I never read the parenting manual.” When all was said and done, Tony stepped into the elevator and was immediately whisked off down to the lab.

Peter pursed his lips. “That’s because I never came with one,” he muttered into the silence before returning to his backpack to fetch his phone, bringing up his texts to Harry:

 **Petra** : Hey, so, about that idea you had. Would you drive me upstate next Saturday?  
**Harriet** : omg thats grammer ur serious  
**Harriet** : dude im so down 4 it lets do it

Smiling to himself, Peter dropped his backpack behind Tony’s chair and went to eat dinner.

###### 

“Ugh,” Tony muttered to himself as he walked into the lab, shrugging off his sweater across a chair. “What d’ya think, FRI? Did I do the right thing? Should I have taken away his _PlayStation_?”

“Boss, you’re the one with a _PlayStation_.”

“It was rhetorical, FRI.”

“My senses would indicate it wasn’t, Boss. You were directly asking me for advice. My advice would be to communicate: You could start by answering Peter’s questions, and informing him about Harley’s condition—past and present.” She paused. “If you don’t want to verbally communicate, I could always send Peter Harley’s file from your personal server.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair and sat down on his stool, facing his workstation. “I wasn’t aware I made you so human as to hold a grudge,” he said, ignoring her offer for the moment.

It took FRIDAY no time whatsoever to respond, her Irish lilt deepening with her accusative tone. “You programmed me, Boss. A creation is its creator.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Smart girl,” he murmured and heard a subtle ‘ding’ in response to the praise. “OK, communication. I can do that. I will do that—just, later.” He could take FRIDAY’s lack of response either way. In wake of their conversation, he decided to assume her agreement with him.

Leaning on to his arm heavily, Tony set to work reading down the broader array of injuries Cho had sent through to him an hour or so ago, when his mind was much more concerned with Peter’s sudden and uncharacteristic absence at cram and his subsequent disappearance from the airwaves. At the thought, Tony sent a quick text to let Happy off the job of looking for him, receiving a ‘ _Thank God. That kid’ll send us both to an early grave_ ’ in response almost immediately.

Getting back to work, Tony used his index finger to skirt over the list and down the various injuries, thumbing through attachments with a semi-permanent grimace. Despite the voices in his ear hissing for him to green-light Cho’s request for a psychological analysis, Tony red-penned it and quietly put everyone’s safety to one side to revisit later.

Harley wasn’t... ill, as such. He’d just had a rough childhood—and that leaves a mark. Hell, sometimes it leaves more than a mark; sometimes it leaves a bad scar, a gaping wound, a broken kid with a few unfixable _quirks_.

“ _Kids are not machines,_ ” Pepper told him once, a hand to his shoulder, as he’d been contemplating Peter’s sudden but very welcome intrusion on his life – even before he knew the kid was his. He’d brushed her off, then, laughed and said he knew that, that he had experience because of Harley (heh) and all those lil’ kids who loved to pester him with questions anyway.

But now he disagreed with her. Kids – humans in general – were _definitely_ machines. Sometimes they worked and sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they needed a tune-up, sometimes they needed some downtime and sometimes...

Well, sometimes you just couldn’t fix them.

Sometimes you had to start again.

Tony stared at Cho’s notes and reread them, red-penning anything he didn’t want Rogers and his band of merry Avengers to know about just yet. He didn’t have any right to do that – if anything, Rogers was the one who had every right to ask Cho to stop sending her notes for proofreading and give them to him straight without Tony editing them first.

But...

Tony’s shoulders drooped. _I have to protect them_ , he thought broadly, second-guessing himself on just who he was actually attempting to protect. He’d never had that problem: he’d always, always protected everyone else. So, why? Why now? Why was he questioning his loyalty when, right now, was the exact time they needed most to come together and be a team against all the stupidities around them?

“ _Have we ever really been a team?_ ”

 _Goddammit_. He’d really let something go, then, even if it was true and his feelings had been trodden on at every interval. Tony rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and green-lit for Cho to tell Rogers exactly what Harley had been injected with. On second thought, he wrote a note advising her to advise him (haha, even he thought he was pathetic for making her do it) to contact Wakanda. It was the least Tony could do.

The absolute least. Bottom line. They deserved to know everything – especially since Rogers had noticed Tony’s extended absences to the New York Sanctum and Stephen Strange’s seemingly constant presence in Tony’s life. Even Rhodey had questioned the amount of time he spent with the damned Wizard. It was astonishing no one thought there was anything going on between them. Sexually.

 _ANYWAY_.

He pressed send.

Tony clicked open a monitor beside him and stared at the unopened folder Stephen had sent through detailing everything he thought he knew from those damned visions and meditative sessions at the arctic. Tony wasn’t a fool; he was a man of science, yes, but he couldn’t deny what he’d witnessed from the (supposed) Endgame battle, and the subsequent magic he’d observed Stephen doing—and that damn cloak. God.

(He sorta wanted one, actually. Maybe he could somehow convince Stephen to let him try it(? Was it an _it_?))

Tony wasn’t going to ignore this. He couldn’t. If the world was in danger again, as Stephen thought, he’d do everything he could to save it – one last damn time.

Clicking open the folder, Tony settled on his stool and instructed FRIDAY, “Lockdown the lab, girl. I’m gonna be pulling an all-nighter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No bonus here this time, just a couple of things to mull over.  
>  **Firstly** , this chapter has definitely played with my head a bit because I know you guys are waiting for explanations and answers to your questions. I was in several minds on whether I could either shorten this chapter or exclude it all together--but I've come around to thinking of it, and I hope you will too, as sort of the last 'buildup explanatory' chapter. I realise that makes little to no sense, but I've been going back over my storyline and plot basis and decided this had to be it, and now we'll slowly start properly digging into the plot. Gradually, we'll move more characters (canon and currently not-so-canon) in but there'll be introduced in same way as our Spider, Ant and Panther originally were in Civil War, if you get my drift. Thank you guys for sticking with me and continuing to have enthusiasm for TWWWE !  
>  **Secondly** , I hope my portrayal of Harry and Norman is OK ! I actually haven't watched the Spider-Man movies they're in in absolute years, and I don't own them currently so I've relied on watching a ton of YouTube clips and reading personality columns on wikis to help me. I'm sorta going for a mixed bag with them and their cronies so I can fit them into the plot, so please go a little easy on me.  
>  **Thirdly** , to all my readers in the US (especially in big cities like NYC) and others around the globe protesting, _you are heroes_. A better tomorrow can only be achieved through those who strive for honest progress and understanding of what brings us together in our societies. The world is watching, and history is being written.  
> Stay safe -J


	5. I have so much work to do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > He couldn’t think like that, he’d told himself; this was totally different to Barnes. This wasn’t brainwashing; this was... _conditioning_. This was about rebuilding a malfunctioning machine in the only way Tony knew how: by breaking it down again and again and _again_ until they found the broken piece and could fix it once and for all.
>> 
>> _Sometimes you can’t fix them—sometimes you have to start again_.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys ! I'm so sorry this chapter took an age to get to you. I've had some personal stuff, and it knocked me for six. Thank you for your comments last chapter - and for sticking with me up to here ! I hope you'll enjoy getting some answers to where this fic is going in this chapter.  
> Thank you for all your support.
> 
> Note;; also big thank you to the few people who pointed out crams don't exist in America. They'll now just be after-school study groups (that's a thing, right?), which I'll edit in eventually when I have some more time. Thank you :) -J

###### 

“OK. Let’s do this.” Tony took another gulp of his coffee as the screens around him lit up with carefully catalogued information. If he had learnt one thing from this already at just the barest of glances, it was that Stephen Strange was a man who kept his notes very well organised. It was surely the perfectionist doctor in him. Everything was colour-coded, labelled and, despite Stephen’s aversion to tech, he’d even written a fairly advanced and clever program to automatically categorise the information therein. Tony, as he breathed in the heavy caffeine and mouthed the rim of his cup, noted keenly the good doctor had left areas to encode Tony’s personal AI gift of PIANO (Stephen would never work out that acronym) into the system at a later date. _Good boy_.

Nodding his approval, Tony turned his attention to the actual notes. The semi-permanent frown he’d adorned the last few hours finally broke into a grimace as he realised _how much there really was_ to paw through and deconstruct into useable segments of critical information and lesser, more mundane observations he could maybe disregard later on if they became redundant.

Not that Tony was expecting anything to actually become redundant at this point, especially as Stephen had so thoroughly compiled and grouped everything to avoid such issues; their minds really did think alike it seemed, and, despite the world-ending premise, Tony couldn’t deny how much he was looking forward to sifting through the bulk of and getting to grips with the wizard’s visions and meditative sessions—having the chance to pick over the workings of such an entangled mind like Stephen’s would be a joy in itself. “This is going to take a while,” Tony murmured, sitting up properly to roll his shoulders and wrists. “What’s the estimation, girl?”

“I would estimate it will take you twelve to sixteen hours to manually sort through everything, Boss.”

“But we have a trick, don’t we?” Tony replied, his lips quirking before falling flat. “You know you can’t stay mad at me when there’s work to be done, FRI.”

She made a disagreeable sound.

Tony pushed himself away from the desk, coffee in one hand, and motioned with his fingers to the piles of digital information around him as his tables folded down into the floor and removed themselves into the walls, a few being pulled directly into the ceiling to empty the lab of equipment entirely. It left a blank canvas, as specially-designed projectors slid out from their slots ready and waiting. “FRI, drop the metaphorical needle on my all-nighter playlist, will ya.” _Don’t Stop Me Now_ by _Queen_ started lowly in the background and Tony nodded along to the first beats before setting to work, plucking his tech glasses from their hook and sliding them up his nose to rest on the bridge. He blinked a few times to adjust to the discolouration of his surroundings. “All right, ladies and gentlemen; let’s go to work. Activate the holograms and show me the wizard’s visions made real.” He clicked his fingers as his glasses thrummed to life, the display lighting up to welcome him.

FRIDAY started to rearrange the blank chrome of the lab and, with the help of his glasses’ overlay and virtual reality technology, transformed the area using holographic projectors to throw images around Tony to suit whatever Stephen had written large in his words. FRIDAY converted them automatically and, using her intricate programming, seamlessly pulled reference images from the vast database of the internet to flood the lab with the appearance of a grassy knoll.

“This is Area A, Boss, from my revised notes at your discretion.”

“Abbreviate it to AA, will ya,” Tony replied humourlessly, raking his eyes over the sewn-together landscape in bud. He bent down to feel his fingers through the ‘grass’, tricking the outlaying regions of his brain into the belief he was actually feeling the thin-air his hand was currently stroking even as the picture flaked around where his feet vanished beneath the illusion. Tony breathed out, nodding slowly to himself, and swearing he could almost smell the fragile scents of spring. “But our boy wizard doesn’t call these places areas, right FRI? He calls them _domains_.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Something damn mythical about the word _domain_ in this context,” Tony replied with a whistle, raising his eyes across the land to stare at the faint, misted-over outline of a grand castle on the hill. “Looks a bit medieval, this.” Tony stood to his full height and clasped his hands together. “All right, FRI: show me the next one.”

“Area B.” FRIDAY changed the layout with immediate effect, switching the grass into gritty, dead land. “Boss, if I might give a little clarification: Doctor Strange has currently identified fourteen different domains, with the possibility of two more he remarks on in his notes as being ‘very far away’. Seven are currently ‘very vivid’.”

Tony nodded as he walked across his lab, surveying the trodden-down, dried-up earth ahead of him. A tumble weed blew past in jolted animation. “This is reminding me of the Wild West,” he said, having acknowledged FRIDAY’s other comment without rising to it. “OK. What’s the next one?”

FRIDAY switched the land into dense jungle. “Area J.” Tony immediately disliked the closeness of the overbearing illusions surrounding him and flicked his hand for the next. “Area F,” said FRIDAY and the lab transformed into something similar to the Wild West domain, as Tony had logged it in his head, but the stones around him were darker, and the further onwards Tony looked the colder the land became; it seemed to stretch into something resembling a cavern.

( _Almost like the one from 2008, from Afghanistan—Oh, Lordy_ ).

“What a nightmare,” Tony muttered in regards the dubbed Area F, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Any extra comments here, girl?”

“Doctor Strange remarks on this domain as feeling both magical and devoid of any life; it is blank but he detects a presence he cannot discern, something waiting in the shadows which seemingly cannot escape—he says he hears rapid, unravelling breathing and footsteps getting closer the longer he lingers.”

A shiver ran down Tony’s spine at the description. “Glad I’m not sleeping tonight,” he murmured, pushing up the glasses. “Next area.” Around him, the cold darkness of the cavern-like trappings of stone cleared to reveal an arena fit for the Gods. “Nice. I could think of a few—Oh, what the Hell is that?” Turning on the spot, correcting the glasses again, Tony stared up in dismay at the three-dimensional white square in the sky, hovering over the land like some floating castle void of any features. “Notes?”

“There are no notes connected here,” said FRIDAY unhelpfully. “Would you like to see the next one, Boss?”

Tony nodded and so the sixth of the strange domains solidified around him. The illusion of hot sand covered the lab and in the near distance a pyramid rose towards the roof turned sky, coloured in the blackness of night. “Yeah, this seems ominous,” said Tony, the silence of the encroaching darkness terrifying. “Last one, FRI?”

“Area Y.”

The sands drew away to reveal familiar, cracked pavements and Tony blinked out of his confusion seconds later when he realised he was standing in the middle of New York – Manhattan – just down from where the Tower should be. “Huh. So, _this_ must be Uptown,” he said, breathless, looking in all directions for the source of the sudden and unprovoked uneasiness settling in his joints; he wanted – no, _needed_ to run. “FRI, give me notes. I know there were notes for this.”

“This is perhaps Doctor Strange’s most visited location in his visions. He says he’s walked for miles but never seems to enter any other roads—and yet everything around him shifts, as though he is transcending wavelengths; an infinite loop.” She paused. “He hears screams, too.”

“Screams?” Tony muttered, and banished the holograms with a nervous twitch of his hand. “And there’s more?”

“The rest are only partially constructed according to his notes, Boss. I could not accurately present them in the holographic form without more information.” FRIDAY continued, “There is also an ocean, every time seen from a different angle, and Doctor Strange remarks on watching boats frequently amongst the waves but has never been close enough to distinguish anything.”

Tony scratched his chin. “OK. In summary, we’ve got seven of these ‘domains’, with other incomplete ones, and an ocean. OK. That’s—that’s just the locations.” Tony walked across to the edge of the lab and kicked a panel in the floor, a chair rising up for him to sit down on. “What about structures? We got any of those in the files? I saw that castle.”

FRIDAY threw up a gallery of existing buildings from around the world. “Things like this?” Surprise lit in Tony at seeing his own beloved Tower represented in the slides, slumping forwards in the chair to begin scrolling through them.

“Not just like them, Boss, but exactly these structures,” said FRIDAY, her Irish lilt rising in her exclamation. “Doctor Strange was very insistent on it in his notes.”

“Interesting,” Tony murmured, dragging his finger across the holograms. “That pyramid again, huh? Never been one for Ancient Egypt myself... Uh, anyway: I see Oscorp building, my Tower, the Compound, the arena – Hammer Industries? Really? That looks like the doughnut and... what the hell is that? A dojo? A _bridge?_ ” Tony waved his hand, dismissing the collection of castles rolling past. “Strange has been looking at buildings again, OK. He mentioned people to me; what’ve you got? Who’s peopling this place?”

Tony waited and watched as FRIDAY threw the buildings to one side and replaced them with an array of humans and hominoids; some were just grey profile shots and descriptions, but others were full-on photos of people Tony knew—like himself, for one. He grimaced at the photo FRI had used from his ‘glory days’ of yore, knowing instantly it was her grudge withstanding, and then flicked his eyes across to one of Peter, one of Rogers. Romanoff and Barton. Thor. T’Challa. Those space idiots. Scott Lang, Scottish Language – whatever his name was; Tony wasn’t concerned by him but—

_Loki_. Hm.

Tony swept his hand across the length of the reel FRIDAY had thrown together, faces he both knew and didn’t know flashing by. He chewed his lip idly, having drained his coffee and, from experience, knowing not to nibble on the rim of the cup. “Osborn,” he muttered, when FRIDAY slowed the dial across and it landed squarely on a picture of the sunken face of the Oscorp owner. “FRI, give me this in numbers: What’s the frequency? The ratio? Who’s Stephen seeing most often?”

“You, Boss.”

“Me?” Tony raised his eyebrows and sat back. “Should I be flattered, or...?” His eyes flitted over the bar chart FRIDAY presented, raising his hand to run one finger down the numbers and expand on the reasoning behind them. “So, I’m turning up a lot in these visions... What about—ah, bingo: Harley.” Tony jumped off the chair and moved around the room with the bar chart, putting it to one side as he came to wait in front of one of his ground projectors. “Right. FRI, do me a favour and structure Stephen’s world into the most likely scenario using, eh, use a globe. Add the people, monuments and subtract the majority of repeated and redundant data to give me a look at this world, then.”

The holograms phased through Tony to begin building a huge globe in his lab. Tony wandered around it as FRIDAY built it into the most likely configuration, using a hand to touch the sands connecting the coast to the ocean. “FRI, any word on what this is?”

“It would appear to resemble vibranium, Boss, but Doctor Strange has given no confirmation.”

“It’s a guess?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“A vibranium coast? That’s interesting...” Tony flicked his eyes over to New York, surrounded by grey space. He stared a little longer than necessary at the picture of Peter superimposed on to the city, only looking away when it shifted to an artsy greyscale of Sam Wilson. Brushing his hand over the expansion arrow, seeing the several undefined portraits unfold out, Tony asked, “Is this the most populated area, girl?”

At FRIDAY’s yes, Tony ran his eyes over them again. “Harley’s here – Harley’s on that one, too.” He tapped the desert, noting Rogers’s inclusion but Barnes’s exclusion with subtle and perplexing interest.

“Doctor Strange’s notes place Harley as being everywhere, Boss. He has no one defined area.”

Tony didn’t respond to her, but merely stared at the latticework of connections across the made-up planet. When FRIDAY enquired as to his thinking, he said to her, “I’m just a little... concerned—I mean, look at this thing, FRI; it’s a world all of its own made up of parts of Earth and fantasy. Why is Str—St-Stephen having these weird—these damn visions? Is he just tripping? Has the inter-dimensional thing finally gone to his head?”

“Boss, if I may,” began FRIDAY, and, hearing no objections, she continued, “From my calculations, while it would be entirely possible for Doctor Strange to be constructing these images, the continuum of them is the key to their actuality. I would summarise a seventy-eight percent chance of this planet existing somewhere in the multiverse.”

“Jeez, FRI; you can’t throw numbers around like that,” Tony replied, raking a hand through his hair—and then pausing when he remembered the red, angry lines over Peter’s scalp and how they’d looked almost animalistic in the applied pressure. “FRIDAY, check what our Pete’s doing, would you? Oh and, uh, find me some research on what grounding is for later, if you would.”

“Of course, sir.” A few moments of nerve-racking silence went by, and then FRIDAY said, “Peter is currently studying and talking to a friend on his Starkpad. Would you like me to end the call and patch you through?”

“No, no.” Tony waved her off, enlarging a subsection of the globe in front of him, faking interest in the Wild West. “But who’s the friend? Any clue?”

“Vocal detection would suggest Ned Leeds.”

“That’s fine, then.” Tony’s head ran away from him on at least four different processors, contemplating varying issues around him even as he manually sorted through the biggest issue of them all: Stephen’s file. He pressed his fingers against his eyes and ignored FRIDAY telling – sorry, _advising_ – him to rest. Pepper was back in the penthouse and putting Morgan to bed now, the AI mentioned with ulterior motives which made Tony crack a smile. His wife – his darling wife; the best of wives and best of women – briefly sent her love before collapsing into their bed, and Tony restrained himself from going up there to sleep beside her: it would do no good to leave the work he was right now doing when he was finally sorting through the bulk of it.

Deciding he would firstly deal with Strange’s visions and his construction of this world, Tony pushed everything else away and sent his mind backwards to a simpler time when he was just a man in a can crashing through barriers without of inspecting them first. “FRI, what was that – that character our dapper magician keeps bringing up through these notes? Ah, yeah; that one.”

Tony flicked his finger across the screen and up jolted a description of a man – a supermodel; a product from the beauty aisle, Stephen described him as, with dark locks and fair skin; bushy facial hair; white eyes; never without a very certain smile. He was a constant, someone Stephen had never otherwise met, and appeared omnipresent through the entirety of his visions; an entity floating above all beneath him. “FRI, how likely is it for Stephen to have made up this character without any prior knowledge?”

Holograms from internet blogs appeared to Tony’s left. “Writers often describe having met and interacted with their characters in their dreams,” she said.

“Not sure the boy wizard has much time for casual reading – or that he even _does_ casual reading – no less being some secret fantasy author on the side—erotica, maybe, but...,” Tony breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he fell into humour to deflate the pressure settling in his chest. “OK. OK. Let’s say this guy is real, then. OK. Let’s say he’s some sorta God of this place, and let’s say he’s constructed this world as a means as to – I don’t know – rule over a selection of humanity? Pit us against each other, or something? Go Battle Royale on our asses?” Tony clicked his fingers at the blogs, banishing them. He brought forward the character detail again, hand to his face. “Just to be safe, FRI: Are there any known references to a guy matching him anywhere?”

“None I’ve found, Boss.”

“OK, so that narrows it down to the multiverse. Got it.” Tony crossed his arms, self-soothing. “And no name? Just this – this ‘beyond’? What does that mean? What the Hell is a ‘beyond’ feeling?” When FRIDAY didn’t reply to him, Tony couldn’t help but feel the slightest prickling of loneliness at sorting through this basically by himself. He could have anyone of at least ten people with him to discuss everything, but instead he chose his bodiless AI. “Put him to one side for a bit, will you, FRI? I wanna come back to him in a minute I just need...” Running a hand down his face, Tony said more to himself than her, “I need something.”

“Something, Boss?” FRIDAY enquired, and suddenly a vast array of holograms lit up the room with a blue light. “You have 329 files currently named ‘something’ on your Personal Server alone. Shall I also search the Home and Company Servers?”

Tony flicked his hand. “I didn’t mean it like that! I meant, uh, I meant... God, I don’t know what I meant—I meant a connection! I need something tha-that _connects_ all this junk! There’s got to be a reason; there’s _always_ a reason.” Sitting down on his stool, spinning in a clockwise direction to think, Tony grasped at his wits’ end. “I need—I need Stephen, dammit—except he’s no damn help because these are his visions and he’s expecting me to sort through them and come back with something. Dammit.” Running a hand down his weary face, tiredness sticking in his eyes, Tony muttered, “I need a thinking mind, I need—I mean, if Harley was...” He bit back the thought before he could voice it—but, like a weed, it quickly took hold of his head.

Taking in a deep breath, Tony drawled, “If I could contact Harley and have him look through this, he’d probably give me an answer...” He’d done that before – twice, actually – and Harley had come through for him pretty damn well. _I can’t ask Harley what all this is, though: this whole thing has something to do with him, for Gods’ sakes_. At least, they were pretty sure it did. Tony dropped his head back as a headache struck his frontal lobe. _Asking Harley about all of this would be like asking a guy you’re about to murder where you should hide his corpse_.

Tony swallowed down the seven seconds of panic he endured before gesturing at a nearby table. “FRI, raise this unit.” He waited for it to begin slowly rising from its position in the floor and gritted his teeth at the slowness, bending down to begin shifting through the drawers he could reach and rising with it. “Dammit.” He searched another row, chucking obsolete folders of once-important information across the lab. Where was DUM-E when you needed him to collect trash?

Pulling out another drawer, Tony shifted through the contents with pressing abandon. He threw a couple of old copies of the Sokovia Accords to the right, a fridge manual to the left and a Swedish-language handbook for a table behind him. They were all things which could easily have been either digitalised or gotten rid of already; why did he keep so much crap in this place?

Anyway, where the Hell was that folder?

“Boss, what are you looking for?”

Tony pursed his lips, sticking his head into another drawer. He paused before confirming, “That— _Judas_ —where’re the paper notes? I swear I...” He stood back, inhaling deeply. “FRI, girl, tell me I didn’t...”

“... I believe the paper notes are upstate, Boss, although I can’t locate them accordingly.”

“Of course you can’t. Of course not.” He ran a hand down his face and muttered into his palm, “That’s the damn point of them being on paper. Oh, shit.” Tony stood up, brushing lint off his jeans. “Lab is soundproof and secure, right, FRI?”

“Yes, Boss. Only Doctor Strange could currently bypass my perimeters.”

Tony nodded. “That’s fine. You know what I want, girl.” He rolled his wrists a couple of times as he waited for FRIDAY to replace the existing files he was looking at with his requested one, watching tensely as a simple file – low-key, labelled plainly as _Saduj Noitarepo_ – appeared in front of him. Tony raised a hand, hesitated, and then manually turned the file over so the text beneath it now read _Operation Judas_. He pressed his hand against it, no longer so idle in his movements as he raised his head, defiance flirting with abandoned courage in his eyes.

The hologram moved backwards until it spread across the entire south wall. Tony walked with it, watching and waiting as it loaded and the system asked him to place his hand atop a blue square. Under his palm it gradually unfolded into a maze of options for him to press and interact with, moving this to there and that to somewhere else. He briefly glanced at what he was actually doing before finally acknowledging exactly what he needed from the file with a few more squares pressed: the epicentre.

Although with any other folder he could have explicitly asked FRIDAY to conduct this search, he couldn’t here. He’d disabled her connection with the file to sabotage any possibility of someone getting in who shouldn’t. It was a step, sure, but he couldn’t be too careful when it came to this, to—

_Operation Judas_.

Suddenly, the various boxes he’d been shifting through came together and formed a large network of words across the wall. Three long rows of a numerable amount of words, all of which Tony had placed in the program himself, appeared one after the other. When they’d finished loading, a line of text flashed in above them, and it read: Choose wisely. A countdown clock gave him 38 seconds before the system would lockdown. Knowing he had to be quick, Tony’s fingers twitched, and eyes flicked downwards to the bottom left. He walked the few steps to press the word _avenue_ with his fingertips, and then quickly to the one above it – _seconds_. He was back to the search until he happened across _believer_ and _unravel_. Tony held his hand atop _infinity_ and slowly touched it with one finger. _Product_ was next, then _wavelength_.

Tony reached up and closed his eyes as his flat palm settled over the last word, pressing his hand down against _Avenger_.

The countdown stopped, and the text (which had been reddening as the seconds slid by) swept away grant entrance to the file immediately. Tony pushed down the breathlessness in his lungs and swallowed the bile threatening to spill over his lips, momentarily turning away to look at the floor and swear, “You asshole.”

A lot of people hate themselves, right? A lot of people have moments, don’t they? Everyone has a couple of seconds when they really, frantically, _fantastically_ hate themselves—of course they do!

For Tony, this was one of those times, and it stretched into minutes as he turned back to the hologram and brushed his hand over the file containing everything to do with Operation Judas. Despite the vast amount of information, he didn’t keep anything here as text files as such; instead they were high quality photos which could be tampered with and deleted in a moment’s notice. Tony placed a hand against his forehead, balling it into a fist against his hot skin as he came over with a mild sweat.

He pressed the backs of his fingers to the videos, taking in a deep breath as he was presented with hundreds of clips ranging from a minute of scattered audio to twenty minutes of intense footage later in the reels. Despite the thrum of sickness settling in his stomach at seeing the thumbnails, the contents of the videos were nothing illegal (as what the majority would consider being illegal, anyway). They were however... uncomfortable viewing and Tony didn’t much enjoy going through them like he used to. In fact, he’d tried to completely forget Operation Judas existed once way back when. After all, it shouldn’t exist.

It really, really shouldn’t.

He never should have done it—done this. He never should have even put the thought out there, considered it, written it down or put possibility into one of his mad scientist moments – but that was just him, wasn’t it? A mad scientist.  
He definitely shouldn’t have offhandedly mentioned it with such enthusiasm when Harley was there, especially after one of their chattier sessions in the lab. Tony was the adult and had, at that point, become Harley’s helpline for his... issues...

( _He’s not ill. He’s not ill. He’s not ill. He’s not ill._ )

Just because Harley had a... preference to risk and a penchant for danger, and dismissed any chance of himself getting caught in the crossfire did not mean he was _ill_ in the way people would label him had Tony not stepped in when he did. He’d only mentioned the damn Judas thing because Harley had noticed he’d been distracted all day, even through their ‘humanitarian session’ as Harley mockingly called them. So, Tony told him and Harley took an interest and is that his fault?

( _Yes it is. Yes it is. Yes it is. Yes it is._ )

After he’d explained it, and Harley mentioned his interest, Tony recognised he probably shouldn’t have said it, especially when Harley, sat on one of the lab tables eating an apple a metre from an expensive drill, a foot from a currently-on laser and an arm’s length from several dangerous chemicals, laughed and said, “ _It would be fun! I’d get to be, like, an Avenger eventually, right? Set me loose on some assholes and watch me tear ‘em to shreds._ ”

Tony was very used to the loose attitude Harley tended to have around him, free to be himself, but he had to put the kid straight on this, “ _It would be a big change, Harley_ ,” he’d said, turning off the laser and the drill as he did.

“ _Everything works out in the end for me, Tony_.”

Tony clenched his teeth at the memory. Delaying the inevitable wouldn’t do. Giving his neck a scratch, Tony resorted to using the sidebar to go through the videos until he found the one he wanted—the very start of it all (technically speaking); the one when all the thumbnails stopped being audio clips and turned into real footage. Dragging his stool over, Tony settled himself atop it and double-pressed the thumbnail.

This would be one of those moments he would look back on to regret.

**Loading Video: Day #1 Project w/ Harley. ‘Avenue’**...

+ _A ‘few years ago._

Tony waved at the camera, watching JARVIS stimulate a blinking red light. “All right, kid! He’s filming. OK, so, attempt one at this malarkey—you ready?”

“’Course,” Harley replied as he got up from his chair, rolling his shoulders. “Can you do that again though – like they do in the movies? Y’know, like: Test subject ‘Harley Keener’, day one?”

“You just did it, kid; I’m not repeating you... Plus, not sure this counts as an experiment considering we aren’t using a control subject,” Tony replied, ruffling up Harley’s hair. “OK. So, are you clear on what this is, Harley? You understand you can stop this at anytime and we can forge-”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” Harley interrupted, eyes full of confident if troubling excitement. He stepped backwards and cleared his expression, looking just marginally younger, as he slid on the glasses and helmet. “I’m ready.”

Tony stepped to one side and flicked on the tunnel he’d mocked up, hologram after hologram beginning to line it. He touched his own earpiece, registering it to Harley’s. “Let’s start, then. Walk on through, and I’ll give you your cue. Your first word is _avenue_ , and don’t start fighting back until you hear it.” Pausing a moment, as he settled his hand over the start button, Tony asked him gently, “Do you trust me, Harley?”

“Of course, Mr. Stark. You’d never hurt me—this is just for science.”

+ _Present._

Tony flicked his hand and banished the video before the clip could expand to the dirty truth of the situation; just seeing the faint orange outlines dotting the area was enough for his breathing to go heavy. The next video attempted to play instead—but he skipped it, as he did the one after that. He skipped rows of videos, finally coming to the end of JARVIS’s recordings and starting on FRIDAY’s—but he continued on until—

Until the dates shifted and Tony knew the prolonged gap was because of the Avengers’ infamous _Civil War_. He observed the time differences with keen interest. Despite Harley’s insistence on coming to see Tony when his arm was injured after the airport and then the more expensive injuries after Siberia, he’d kept the kid away as he sorted through developing issues with the Accords and a few more personal matters he had to deal with—like Rhodey. Rhodey was resting a lot, Stephen Strange wasn’t answering his calls (he would soon learn that had to do with his being involved in _the accident_ , though) for advice on Rhodey’s recovery and Vision was spending more and more time away. He also Happy on the edge of every conversation moaning about Peter’s intrusion into his life, and Tony was also busy in the earliest stages of his decision to move permanently upstate, working through the logistics of relocating the whole of Stark Industries to various other cities while downgrading New York to just an outlet office and business area. It took a lot of time to work out only to reverse it all a few years later, that’s for sure.

Tony had known Harley would be arriving shortly and, because he hadn’t quite converted his head into thinking too wholly of Peter at that point, when Happy turned up with Harley in the back with a ‘pack of his nearly-finished coursework and a couple sets of clothes for the weekend Tony was exceptionally pleased to get his mind off the troubling events of the past few months despite having kept Harley at an arm’s length for them.

It had been the very first time in an age they’d been together, alone, with enough space before and between Harley returning to MIT for Tony and him to continue conducting the supposed ‘non-experiment’... Except Tony had a problem, now—the problem was the why he’d kept Harley away for so long after the stupid Sokovia Accords debacle and Siberia. The problem was, in essence, James Buchanan Barnes.

Despite Tony’s feelings towards the assassin, he’d decided to read the file Fury had commissioned on Barnes to get a better understanding and to tackle the issue head on. It hadn’t taken him long on the first skim, more focused on listening to his music than reading the psychotic diagnostics of a wanted criminal—except for when he’d gotten further in and paused, gone back a few pages and reread and reread and reread. A lot changed in his head over the next week; a lot of new feelings unsettled his neat filing system and Tony took some vacation days to re-evaluate a few contingencies he’d not thought about. The vacation (India was a great place for a vacation, even if you had to be seen at a few high profile parties to smooth over the media) had gone great and, with Peter’s increasing presence, he’d had time to think on that as well and tell the kid to stay safe. In retrospect, giving him a multimillion dollar superhero suit had probably been both the worst and best thing Tony could have done—

( _You like putting your kids in danger, don’t you, Tony? What is it about the destruction of a human mind which fascinates you so?_ a voice whispered and Tony forewent his previous thoughts, focusing back on his memory).

It was a few months later when Harley was there in front of him, in the small kitchenette having coffee when the kid asked when they’d be continuing ‘the Project’ (as it had been known at the time); it was then, at that moment, Tony had the real decision to make.

He remembered it so, so clearly – like it was yesterday, almost. He remembered lifting his eyes from their cups on the table and asking whether Harley was completely sure he still wanted to continue Project Judas (“ _You dare say its name_ ,” Harley chuckled) or whether he wanted to be – in the nicest possible way said – deactivated. Tony needed the kid to think about it as hard as his own thoughts had whirled and weathered the amassing emotional hurricane threatening to have him finally succumb to the universe’s fate for everyone. Tony managed to focus back on Harley, to ask him if Project Judas was even viable; if it was helping to subdue those mindless thoughts he had for others or whether they still occurred with the same frequency; if he still stared at people like they were pawns on a chessboard or NPCS in a game.

Harley just smiled knowingly at Tony, blinked a few times, and said with distinctive detachment in his voice, “ _You and I both know that’s not what this has been about, Tony_.”

They hadn’t spoken anymore after that, after they’d arrived at the gym, after Tony turned on the equipment and banished any unholy thoughts from his head as his subconscious screamed at him, relating Harley to Barnes and he—

He couldn’t think like that, he’d told himself; this was totally different to Barnes. This wasn’t brainwashing; this was... _conditioning_. This was about rebuilding a malfunctioning machine in the only way Tony knew how: by breaking it down again and again and _again_ until they found the broken piece and could fix it once and for all.

_Sometimes you can’t fix them—sometimes you have to start again_.

Tony slumped forwards in his stool, elbows digging into his thighs, and stared at the video as it played, as he drummed out words and phrases to Harley and the boy – the _boy_ – ran a mile through simulated terror. The ‘change’ took longer than the notes said it should, Tony briefly remembered, and he’d been nearly hyperventilating as he’d watched and waited before finally it occurred—the moment, the second when Harley clicked out, when he allowed himself to be built into what his subconscious was. He didn’t allow the mask off—but tore it off with abandon and started his merciless assault on the holographic projections of random assholes.

It was fascinating to watch, to see a damaged mind protect itself in the ways it had been built for; to tinker with it was nothing short of breathtaking—witnessing the rebirth of something, of someone as capable as Harley transform into what he was beneath the rebuilt facade of play-on empathy.

It was, in a way, beautiful to see someone shed society’s introspection and denounce the ways in which he’d been forced to behave to remain decent by the invisible standard. It was beautiful to see the full workings of someone who held no guilt or remorse for his actions against the wider populace. It was beautiful to witness the true logistic power of someone like Harley without his mask on.

It was this moment, Tony remembered, they’d changed the name of Judas Project—because it was no longer a possible project, no; now it was a fully realised reality. Project Judas became Operation Judas because now was all about the continued training; the proper alignment; the rollout. The blue prints could be disregarded; the prototype was obsolete and now the weapon could continue to be upgraded, to be changed a little at a time, to be altered for whatever was needed: a fighter, a machine, a _guard dog_.

Tony closed out of the videos and sat with a blank look on his face as he stared at the hologram asking whether he wanted to see his notes. His notes used to be a great enjoyment for Tony – back when Operation Judas was just a baby idea in his head and he never thought he’d find someone who’d fit exactly what he needed; he could never have imagined he would meet someone steel-minded enough to repress taught and practiced social decencies, who’d padlocked their fragile beginnings to stopper any repeat of the pain. Never had Tony imagined he would see that in Harley after the kid stepped so readily into his life. In the first throws of realisation – of seeing that sparking in his eyes – Tony sought immediately to make Harley understand who and what he was, what he would grow up to be in time, but it wasn’t like the kid didn’t know. If anything, he just hadn’t had the right tools to make it work for him instead of against him.

So, Tony taught Harley how to successfully wear his social mask; how to trick people into seeing someone exactly like them; how to play to the emotion of the moment even if it seemed illogical. Harley was an amazing student who, in time, understood why he had to do it, had to present an outward image of homeboy Harley; a little rough around the edges, but completely dependable and always having your back no matter how stupid it seemed to him (“Oh, I get it. Humans _are_ illogical. They do stupid things because they feel they have to. I get it. I get it. I can do that.”). Looking back on it, Tony was more and more astonished at both Harley’s ability to learn to be something he wasn’t, to be illogical like other humans, and Tony’s own ability to put aside society’s wider view on people like Harley and teach him to be someone. It wasn’t for any random reason Tony introduced Harley to his Floor 13 lawyers: he did it to win Harley’s trust completely, to show him he wouldn’t be about to discriminate against him for his own survival instincts.

In return Harley was more than willing to become Judas.

Tony had been so caught up in explaining how it would work, the benefits and the idea of it, he hadn’t stopped to think how it would control Harley—how _Tony_ would control him and his unsubtle ability to rid himself of the conscious mask he wore over his firm belief in himself instead of the drifting systems about him. Of course Tony knew what it would turn the kid into, how it would render him constantly waiting for those words, on the edge of his seat at every confrontation. Tony didn’t even realise it until Barnes, until he read that damn Winter Soldier report.  
He hadn’t thought long on when Harley called him once in the dead of night, watching one of his problematic classmates stagger about campus drunk as anything. Harley had thought it perfect, and he said so in a rush of too many words for Tony to completely process, until he heard: “ _Let me get rid of him, Tony. He’s a racist, homophobic piece of shit and the world’ll be better off without him in it._ ”

Being of a tired mind at that point, Tony just laughed and muttered the words into the phone. The line went dead and he thought nothing of it until the next day when he got a call from the kid to discuss a project for MIT—Tony briefly asked after the previous night, but Harley wasn’t a gloater; his past victories were not his present problems and he, like Tony, did not dwell on what had made them into men but more on what continued to keep them alive.

So, they never really spoke about it – about that first time Tony ‘activated’ him for real, for a situation he wasn’t present for and in any ability to control. It wasn’t long after that when Peter stepped into their lives and shortly became a central constant to them both. They’d agreed some time after it wasn’t right or fair for Harley to be so much of a weapon. He had to keep his mask so, so much more tightly on when Peter was there; he had to learn to be a guard dog of wherever they were; he had to be leashed and given a more fitting role. Whenever he wasn’t at MIT or at home, he would be in New York; he would be the dog of the Starks and of Peter (of which would soon condense into one); would be intelligent and loving and safe—and he would keep everyone else safe, too.

Tony gave him outlets: company traitors; media moguls past their prime; general assholes he couldn’t quite dispatch without there being something of a scandal. Harley would have them instead and wouldn’t even think about it after the event took place. It probably wouldn’t even consider it mentionable, this side of him.  
Tony would take his shoulder, would mutter the words, and lock the door. His lawyers all knew what a white light meant. It worked because Harley was capable, because he was trained, because his youth had made him a defender, a protector of himself and those around him he considered safe and in his circle. Tony conditioned him to protect by doing what he could not ask anyone else to do: kill, without a shred of mercy or duty about it.

Tony put his head in his hands and jabbed the table with his foot a few times. FRIDAY eventually understood and raised it without saying a thing so Tony could lean against it and let the cold steel support his weight as his back arched over and all he found himself staring at were the bunched sleeves of his sweater at his elbows, taking in breath after breath as he avoided the insistence of a possible panic attack sitting on the edge of his thoughts.

Flicking his hand at the dark holograms displaying Operation Judas, Tony watched them be folded back into the system and away from view. FRIDAY brought Strange’s notes back up, and Tony moved one hand to tap mindlessly against the table. He balled the other at his mouth, nails scratching his short beard. “FRIDAY, girl,” he said into the chill of the lab. “Am I a bad person?”

“No, Boss.”

“You would say that; you aren’t about to talk bad about your creator,” Tony replied with meaningless subtext, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to stretch the wear from them. “Oh, God, I am a bad person—I mean, why did I do it, FRI? I should’ve settled with Ultron; should’ve settled with the suit of armour around the world crap.”

“Boss, if I might... You developed the two concepts differently. One was never meant to supplement the other,” said FRIDAY as Tony tinkered with Strange’s notes, continuing to fold them into new categories. “Ultron was a means of protecting the world. Judas was a personal protection tool.”

Tony paused, his hand stilling on an image of Peter Quill’s face from the character files. He tilted his head to the ceiling. “And your point is, FRI?”

“I... believe you’ve forgotten the reason you developed the Judas Project, sir.”

Tony bit back a more casual retort, a claw picking at his heart. “I said some crap to the kid over coffee and he thought- he thought it sounded ‘cool’. I said it’d be a way for him to cut the empath crap every so often and go nuts on someone without the social construct I’d taught him.” Trailing over the characters inhabiting Strange’s visions, Tony paused on a media photo of Harry Osborn before carrying on through to the trash panda and- Groot? The tree was Groot, right? “Then I met Barnes and realised exactly what I’d done—I was just as ba-”

“Boss, please,” FRIDAY interrupted, sounding drained—God, he had done a good job programming her, hadn’t he? “While I am allowed no concrete access to anything concerning Operation Judas, I am aware of the context and you do your genius a disservice by the comparison of Sergeant Barnes and Harley Keener.

“While, yes, the two share the similarity of their activation, Sergeant Barnes was brainwashed and programmed to be a merciless assassin through brutal methods which completely destructed his character again and again. Harley was not conditioned like that.”

“There were similarities; they might have fried Barnes’s brain, but I dismantled Harley’s over and over again,” Tony responded, a hand to his head, rubbing the headache in. He either needed to get more proactive with what he was doing or shut it down and retire for the night—he couldn’t do that, though; he had so much work to do.

FRIDAY hummed. “It does, Boss. You gave Harley a choice to undertake the conditioning, and allowed him total range of input. You gave him the choice to have an activation switch. Before doing that, you taught him how society assumes a person should behave and held him to account while observing and realising the environmental factors of his upbringing had given him a blank slate on what was acceptable behaviour. In continuing into conditioning, Boss, you gave Harley an outlet to express his true self in the context of removing the mask he otherwise has to wear to maintain a social standing, with his acknowledgement that his wider views are not acceptable to the largely neurotypical population.

“Boss.” FRIDAY paused, and Tony briefly wondered if it was for effect. “You developed the Judas Project to _protect_ Harley Keener.”

“I still used him,” Tony said to his AI, flicking his hand at the hologram in front of him and turning his chair to face the rest of his lab. “I exploited his mentality.”

FRIDAY brought up numerous articles in front of him, and Tony tried hard to shield his eyes from staring at the headlines and the faces of murderers. “FRIDAY, I know what you’re trying to do-”

“Boss.”

“I know! I know!”

“You showed these exact articles to Harley to explain to him why his attitude is unacceptable and where it would get him if there weren’t-”

“Safeguards,” Tony interrupted, his eyes narrowing at the floor. He started shaking his head. “I get it, FRI. I get it. OK. Fine. Yes—but where the Hell are the safeguards now? Who knows what Harley’s gonna be like now? If his activation would even work? I don’t—I can’t get close enough to him without Cap being around, and I can’t be sure Harley wouldn’t immediately perceive me as a threat because...” _Because of Stephen Strange and all this cra—_

Wait.

_Wait a minute_.

“FRIDAY, highlight all the mentions of Judas in Stephen’s notes—and any correlations.” Tony waited, watching as FRIDAY downed the articles from view and started processing through the file Strange had kept on his visions, throwing out bits of text and supplementary editions from the collection of data. Tony circled a few repeated insistences and placed them to one side, moving all mentions of Peter and Harley to the left. “FRI, that—that guy – yeah, him; that _beyonder_ guy or whatever – put anything with references to him, uh, actually, in front of me. Yep—and that’s great, girl, amazing.” Tony raised a hand to his face, inhaling through his fingers as he slumped off of his chair to walk around the circle of information around him.

“Oh, yeah, this is... This is...” Tony flicked his eyes over it, through it, attempted to find the collected correlation between everything. His thoughts started working as his fingers did, placing everything carefully into some constructed order. He gritted his teeth, recognising a pattern. “FRI, quick Q, girl: how much info on Judas did I actually give Strange? I didn’t show him the activation code, right?”

“That’s correct, Boss.”

Tony clenched his fist. “So, how does he have it?” Tony grabbed a stylus from a drawer and underlined a few passages of texts, a few places he could be reading too much into. A moment of dark panic drew in and suddenly his stomach dropped out from under him. “FRI, in the cityscape Strange describes—does he mention any avenues?”

“Yes, Boss, he mentions-”

Tony waved his hand. “No specifics. Box all this Judas stuff, uh, to the left and show me any mentions of ‘seconds’ in Stephen’s notes.” Tony stared at the various extracts where Strange had outlined the _seconds he was suspended midair_ and the _seconds he spent staring at white eyes_. “Unravel,” Tony muttered more into his palm than anything, but FRIDAY quickly dug through and pulled up bits and pieces of _the world unravelled_ and _the unravel of the landscape_. “Stephen is clever as fuck; he’s detail-orientated. He wouldn’t use those words if not for a reason—that’s a plant, FRI. Those words have been...”

But...

That would mean...

Tony stood up straight, losing all the breath from his lungs. “How?” he managed, raising a hand to run over his greying hair, the aged lines of his face deepening. “I- That’s... That’s classified. FRI-”

“All of my systems are running perfectly normally, Boss. I have not detected anything untoward.” FRIDAY paused, and then said, “Might I remind you, too, that I am coded to destroy that part of my database should anyone unauthorised access your private servers and attempt to enter the file.”

Tony walked a few steps back, raising his eyes from the highlighted words to cross to the pile of Judas mentions. “My paper notes—could it be those? FRIDAY-”

“As per your security protocols, Boss, only half of Harley’s activation codes are in the hardcover, if that should put your thoughts to rest.”

“A mixture of them—I didn’t put unravel in there, though,” Tony muttered. “Uh—... Shit.” He opened one arm, feeling distantly as he had when he first discovered time-travel but with more horror chilling straight into the linings of his lungs. He breathed in, out – repeat. He couldn’t afford to panic right now; he’d beaten this, dammit.

He had more important things to worry about right now. He had to get his thoughts straight on this—how had these been so obviously planted in Strange’s brain? Were the visions responsible? Was this some God—?

“FRIDAY,” Tony said slowly, the air around him charged. “Bring up that—that guy again...” Splaying his fingers on the table, Tony stared at the description Strange had provided him with. “If we were to construct a reference image,” Tony began, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Theoretically, FRI... You got an idea?”

It took less than a minute for FRIDAY to construct a slightly jerky-looking image of what Strange had conveyed in text, using stock photos photoshopped and smoothed into one another automatically. Picking up his stylus, Tony enhanced the image with a light filter and then, carefully, in the corner of the image, wrote in bolded black:

**The Beyonder**.

He finalised it, asked FRIDAY to save it and send it to the Wizard. “Tape on the shot of the world we did earlier with the information regarding where, uh, we are in the world, I guess. And write a note with it. These words exactly: Here’s your messiah, your prophet, your pariahs, your barterers and your martyrs.” Tony sat back on his stool, raised his arms and said, “It’s a brave new world. Send it.”

“Yes, Boss.” A moment later, FRIDAY said, “Fury is currently trying to contact you on the secure line.”

“Ah. Knew there was a reason I wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.” Tony flicked his hand at Strange’s file and welcomed Fury into his office via video link as the lab returned to normal bar the holograms. Tony slid a hand beneath his desk and picked up the latest edition of the Accords, holding them up. “OK, eyepatch, let’s sort this out because I have way more important things to do right now than to argue over the rights and wrongs of this shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus** :
>
>>   
> “I don’t know, Peter. Are you sure this guy is safe?” asked Ned through the screen. Behind him, his dorm was a total mess of anime photos and superhero merch; included was Ned’s deactivated SI lanyard, taking pride of place. “Have you even read up on Harry Osborn?”
>> 
>> “Yeah, of course I have, Ned,” Peter replied, tinkering with his dud lamp in an attempt to supply it with unlimited energy from one of Tony’s old but still functional arc reactors. “I know his history. He got himself into a bad place – wrong crowd and stuff, but he’s better now. Hasn’t relapsed or anything.”
>> 
>> “OK, yeah, but I mean...” Ned reconnected to _Runescape_. “I mean the other thing.”
>> 
>> “Other thing?” Peter put down the screwdriver, turning his attention to the call.
>> 
>> “Yeah. The Gwen Stacy thing—it’s all on the internet; just look it up,” Ned replied, eyes on his other screen as he defeated a goblin and then proceeded down to the field to butcher a cow. “Anyway are you coming online, Peter? I wanna team-up and take on those wizards! I need revenge!”
>> 
>> Peter was half-way into his search when he paused to reconsider and run a hand through his hair, wincing when he was reminded of the brutal treatment Osborn’s nails had done on his scalp. It still hadn’t healed, which was a bit weird but Peter let it slip for now; after all, he’d put himself under a lot of stress today thanks to that car ride with the Osborns. “Yeah, Ned. I’m coming on now.” Closing the browser and opening a different one, Peter and Ned played _Runscape_ well into the night, defeating many wizards.
> 
> Real end note: Ah, this chapter took it out of me. Heavy-heavy ! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed ! I love feedback ;) -J 


	6. Non-Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > "Awesome? Yeah?"
>> 
>> "Yeah"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy~ look _who's back_!  
> I'm terribly sorry I vanished for a while. As I mentioned last chapter, life decided to throw some curve balls--well, so, it also slammed one into me and then continued to pelt my face. That's how I've been! Anyway--not important. The important thing is I'm back and so is OFA!  
> Thank you for your comments last chapter, and your patience. This is a smaller chapter, with some Irondad feels because I don't think there's been enough of them in this story.  
> Also, chapter count update omg (don't accept it completely, guys; y'all know what I'm like).

###### 

The next week in the Tower sauntered along in a manner some would describe as ‘smooth’, but most people would describe as _suffocating_.

On Friday, Peter went to college. He said ‘hello’ to Harry and then, during his lecture, texted to say they couldn’t see one another until next Saturday—the day of their trip to the Compound – which, hopefully, Peter would manage to convince Tony was long enough for him, an eighteen-year-old university student, to be ‘grounded’ for (whatever Tony’s version of grounding actually was, anyway: so far, it was a direct to-and-from campus curfew, no study group, no Spider-Manning, and no lab time. He also had to work a few shifts in R&D and Bio- down on the floors which, honestly, Peter didn’t see as punishment, but Tony thought it was and Peter wasn’t about to argue there—at least he got to chat to other people).

Harry’s response had been, understandably, a crying emoji before he’d gone on to ask how Peter was feeling, having been ‘ill’, and reminding him he had the pills if he needed them. Peter paled at the mention, quickly texting back he was fine. He silenced his phone after that and decided to pay attention to Professor Boseman. 

Although it was entertaining, Peter wasn’t sure why he was taking the Psychology 101 class. This would have been a free period for him to catch up on work or one of his solo projects but, perhaps oddly, he’d actually begun to find it really quite interesting and his notes were starting to get as extensively-detailed as his bio- notes were. There was no benefit to the class other than a sedated, cumbersome interest but he couldn’t deny it was still an interest all the same—and interests had to be nurtured.

Plus, Tony had a multitude of books on psychology related to pretty much everything—work, relationships, children. With Peter’s new interest, he gradually worked his way through them over the coming week and, with a heavy heart, began to see a pattern through the sometimes quite intensive writing. Most of it, although not all, had some relation to mental health, personality disorders and ASPD.

With further inspection through the volumes – some large and impressive, others bite-size and very specific, Peter noticed another surprising tread: There weren’t any messy jottings in the margins, underlined passages, or highlighted sections. Having read through a lot of Tony’s bookshelf, Peter knew this was rare—hell, it was downright uncharacteristic. Usually when Peter took an interest in Tony’s books, the notes inside were so extensive (and written in his chicken-scratch language, to make things extra difficult), he had to read through them with the very same level of dedication as the book itself.

But not the psychology books—there wasn’t even a sticky-note of errors in the front. It was almost as if Tony didn’t want anyone understanding why he had the books in the first place.

Come Wednesday and, having miraculously managed to avoid Tony seeing him read the books, Peter was left to face an unconscious truth he’d been denying for a while: There was something wrong with Harley.

Harry was right then, Peter supposed, as he sat in his room contemplating a paper he was meant to write for Prof. Boseman’s class. He also had a mountain of math to wade through (not that it would take long or that he was dreading it – math is fun!). He’d finished all his other assigned work, but the psychology class he’d enjoyed so much in the early days was now something he was coming to dread—only because he was worried; worried something would come up, something would be said and everything would click.

He really needed a distraction—but he also really, really needed answers.

Tapping his pen against the paper, Peter turned his eyes on the ceiling and said, “Karen.”

“Yes, Peter?” she replied immediately.

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but faltered. He pursed his lips and then relented, “Never mind.” Although he had the privacy of his bedroom, Peter wasn’t entirely sure just how much Tony knew about his homework or whether he still downloaded reports from Karen’s servers. It was great his dad cared, but boundaries were a good thing.

Instead of asking for Karen to conduct his search, Peter slid a hand beneath his desk, found the ‘secret’ compartment and took out the slim cognitive psychology book he was reading. A few hours later, as he was starting to get hungry again from giving his brain a work out, his phone started to idly buzz in his pocket. Peter flicked his thumb across the back to access it and see who was calling. He briefly considered the photo of him and Harley as his lockscreen with a faint smile before pressing accept. “You know you can’t call me at home.”

“ _Sorry. I was just wondering if we’re on for Saturday._ ”

“Yeah,” Peter responded, setting his book on the desk to lean his chair back, the muscles in his thighs screaming from the slight pressure as he pushed his toes against the floor so he could better see his calendar. “Are you still OK to drive?” he whispered into the phone, flicking his eyes pointedly towards the ceiling.

“ _Of course. I just... gotta convince my father to let us use his car. Mine’s in the shop._ ”

Peter nodded, an intrusive thought settling in the back of his head, before he dumbly realised Harry couldn’t see him. “Am I putting you out?” He rubbed his skull, felt where Mr. Osborn had raked his fingernails into his skin; although it was all healed up, now, Peter still hadn’t managed to escape the dreadful feeling of something being wrong whenever he touched his head.

There was a shuffling sound on the other side of the phone. “ _No! No, of course not. I- I like spending time with you, Pete,_ ” said Harry directly into the phone, his voice ebbing. “ _You’re my best friend._ ”

Peter violently shivered, seized by the brush of Harry’s accent. He tried to quell the sickness knotting his stomach and replied, “You’re great, Harry.”

“ _Great_ ,” Harry repeated, breathing heavily. Suddenly, in the background, there was a loud **BANG!** “ _Uh-oh, I gotta go. Bye, Pete—see you Saturday!_ ”

“Bye, Harry.” Peter flicked his finger over the end call sign and chucked his phone towards his backpack, done with it for the night, as his chair fell back towards the desk, jolting him. He so missed his swirly chair, but never mind. He got up, stretched the ache in his unused legs, and collapsed against his bedspread, “What the Hell am I doing?”

“Everything OK, Pete?”

Peter nearly leapt out of his skin at hearing his dad’s voice coming from the other side of the door. “Tony?” he replied, blinking harshly against the bright lights of his room, brought up so he could study. He casually waved his hand, and they dimmed automatically. “Oh, uh, hey! You can, uh, you can come in.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Tony pushed the door open and leant into the wooden surrounding frame, his dark eyes staring sadly towards, but not necessarily at, his son. “Just thought I’d pop in, see how you’re doing...” He stepped into the room. Sucking in a breath, letting it out, Tony rubbed his beard and said, “Jeez, I come in here thinking I can start a – a conversation and I... I’m, God, I’m so like my dad.”

“That’s all right,” Peter replied, curling his fingers in his sheets. “I understand.”

“It’s not all right.” Tony eyed the disjointed bedroom. Peter looked around too, blushing slightly; he’d not cleaned it in a while, a bit of open rebellion on his part. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Tony remarked, as if reading his mind.

Peter turned back to look at him, to see the slightest smirk on his face, and attempted his own awkward smile. “Yeah, I figured it could do with some decorating.”

“Well, you’ve done it, kiddo!” Tony said, mock-impressed, spreading his arms. “I can barely see the floor. A masterpiece—you should start a business, Pete.”

“Wouldn’t be any use,” Peter replied, dangling his arms between his legs. “I’m gonna get this mega important business one day, makes loads of money, and changes the face of technology on a weekly basis—you heard of it? Stark Industries?”

“Stark Industries?” Tony raised his eyebrows, hand to his chin. “Can’t say I have, Pete.”

“Oh, it’s awesome, man.”

“Awesome? Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Tony smiled, stepping further into the room to lean his hand against Peter’s desk. Although he glanced down to see whatever was there (some lecture notes, so Peter remembered—wasn’t there something else? Huh), he didn’t comment on the state of it more than he already had. “OK,” Tony breathed, leaning into his hip. “Look, Pete, I... I think we gotta have a chat.”

Peter raised his eyebrows, looking from his hands to his dad, and then back again. “A chat.”

Tony didn’t bother confirming or repeating himself, moving across the room to kick Peter’s foot. “Go on, kid. Move over—I’m gonna sit here.”

“Hah.” The corners of Peter’s lips turned up, his thoughts surrendering to a simpler time—back before Thanos, before the Snap and the Blip; before he knew the truth; before May died; before that stupid field trip and Harley.

Moving aside, Peter slumped into himself. He jolted when Tony’s arm slid around his shoulders and squeezed him, putting persistent pressure on his shoulder. “How’re holding up?”

“I’m—wait, what do you mean? How am I holding up?”

“I grounded you,” Tony replied, shrugging. “I assume that’s meant to mean something to you.”

“Means I can’t go to my study group,” Peter replied, his lips flicking up into a smirk as he gave Tony a somewhat pointed stare. “Means I have a curfew, so no Spider-Manning—and means FRIDAY will send you an alert if I’m not back in time.”

Peter felt Tony shrug beside him, loosening his hold. “I never pay attention to them,” Tony admitted, raising a hand to scope Peter’s hair into some reasonable fashion. “You’re a good kid, Pete. I just- I worry about you, all right? You’re an important person to me, and I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

“You mean like what happened to Harley?” Peter asked, his voice staining with bitterness as he jumped his butt away, wrinkling his nose at the sour mention on his tongue. “I thought we were past this, Tony; I thought you trusted me to make my own damn decisions.”

“Kid, I’m not gonna do that,” Tony replied, pressing the edges of his palms into Peter’s duvet. “And I’m not bringing Harley into this.”

“You never bring Harley into it,” Peter bit out, turning his mouth down. “We were like brothers, Tony. I mean- I mean... How...”

Tony’s eyes darkened. “Careful, Pete.”

Looking up, Peter raised his eyebrows and slowly, practically tasting the word, he asked, “Careful?”

“Yes. Careful,” Tony responded immediately, nodding along with his words. “You don’t have a _clue_ about Harley. You might think you do—I don’t know whose put this psychopath nonsense into your head, Spiderling but for _once in your life_...” Tony stood up, his teeth clenched, eyes closed, thinking of the words he needed to say. “Trust _me_.”

“I do,” Peter replied, sluggishly shoving his hands in the pockets of his house-hoodie. “But I’m tired of being kept in the dark. That’s what Aunt May did to me, Dad...” Looking up through the fuzz of his furrowed eyebrows, Peter muttered, “I thought we went into this thing agreeing to tell each other stuff.”

Tony raised his eyes from the floor and laughed, biting down on his lip to stop the stupid grin from overtaking his slowly souring expression. “Like you tell me _anything_ anymore, Pete.”

“What do you want to know?” Peter asked, brazen, acknowledging blatantly there were some things he did still need to keep from Tony—just until Sunday. Once he’d seen Harley, he would tell Tony everything else—everything about the Osborns, everything about the Bite, everything about everything he should tell him.

Putting on his mock-thinking face, Tony casually asked, “How’s MJ?”

“Don’t know,” Peter replied on the spot, inhaling. “We’re taking a break.”

“Heard that one,” Tony murmured, flicking his eyes across to the hallway. Striding past Peter, he clicked the door closed to preserve some privacy from the sounds in the living room. Leaning back on it, crossing his arms, he asked “Are you enjoying university?”

Peter nodded. “It’s fun.” This was stepping close to a few things he couldn’t talk about. “I’m in some interesting classes-” _Dammit, that’ll make him ask me what they are_. “-And Flash isn’t actually being as big a dick as he was in High School.”

The spark of humour disappeared from Tony’s eye. “Flash?” he asked. “That kid who bullied you? That Flash?”

“Yep,” Peter replied, relief slowing the quickened beat of his heart. “I think, think he was insecure a lot.” He managed to get around using Harley’s name, or mentioning the field trip, understanding it probably wasn’t the best time. “Can I ask you something now?”

Tony tensed, unravelling from his confidence at the drop of a hat. Slowly, keeping his expression guarded and clean, he said, “Sure, bambino.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, feeling chastened by his feelings for the questions he wanted answers to—like was Judas was, and anything to do with Harley, and Doctor Strange acting all weird...

But...

Peter took a deep breath and asked, “How are you?”

It took Tony a moment to register Peter had said anything at all. He slowly looked up, his mouth slanting to the left, and answered, “I’m fine.”

Peter crossed his arms, mirroring Tony’s stance. “How are you, Dad?”

“Peter, really.” Tony uncurled from his held-together posture and walked towards his son, raised a hand, placed it gingerly on his shoulder and leant close to press a kiss into the curls of his hair. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep on the lookout; I intend to update this within the next few days. Stay safe !


	7. Our man saw his future drip, dripping down the drain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “No,” Peter replied, pushing them away, as he felt Harry’s hand press more forcefully into his lower back. “No, I-I’m not taking the pills.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later then I thought! Very sorry. I had to rewrite this entire chapter from scratch, as I wanted to get the story moving and introduce Harry in his more... Well, you’ll see.  
> Thank you for your comments last chapter! It's nice to see there's still love for this story :)
> 
> Quick warning, tho: If you’re sensitive to pill taking, avoid the ending of the chapter. I’ve put a summery down at the end for you!

###### 

After their heart-to-heart, to Peter’s relief and his guilty conscious, Tony started to readapt his schedule to include Peter’s time in the lab again on—although it was all currently supervised, by order of Pepper, to set a good example for Morgan that actions should have consequences.

“Nah, I get it,” Peter replied later that evening, as he spooned in rice. “Aunt May grounded me a couple of times—and, I mean, you’ve grounded me before, too.” He pointed his cutlery at Tony, eyebrow raised.

“I have?” Tony asked through a mouthful of takeaway, blinking blearily at Peter.

Peter smiled, hoping the resurrected memory would prove to become one of light humour instead of the crushing defeat it had felt at the time. “The rooftop. I mean, that was just full Dad mode.”

“It really was,” Pepper agreed, dressed down in a tee-shirt after a hectic day. “You should have seen him when he got back here.”

“Oh? What-” Peter began, eyes lighting up.

“Pepper – no! That’s classified information—that’s from _the before_!”

###### 

Friday evening, Peter pushed his luck. He wandered down to the lab, knowing Tony had gone there earlier to work on something important. When he arrived on the floor and stepped off the elevator, FRIDAY’s voice came over the intercom primly, “Good evening, Peter. Boss is currently finishing up something which you have no clearance to, unfortunately.”

“I know, FRI. I jus- well.” Peter raised what he hoped was a convincing smile to her cameras. “I wanna see my Dad.” _You’re an awful person, Peter_ , he thought, clumsily wringing his hands. “Can you patch me through, FRI?” This was a shit idea. This was the worst damn idea he’d ever had—probably the worst he would ever have. He couldn’t do this; he couldn’t lie and betray their fragile trust.

He had to cancel Harry. He had to-

“Hey, Pete,” Tony said through the comms, sipping his coffee by the sounds of it. “What’s up? Is everything OK? Need a couple thousand bucks in your account? Consider it done, _bambino_.”

“Uh.” Think. Think fast. “Everything’s fine – and I don’t need any money,” Peter replied, staring at the doorway—feeling his stomach crumble in on itself. “I was just—... There’s this, uh, thing happening tomorrow.”

“Thing? On a Saturday? Things happen on a Saturday?” Tony replied with a touch of humour as he slurped his coffee. He loudly placed the mug beside him and something powered up in the background. “What is it, then? Something to do with university?” A sarcastic laugh infiltrated his pressed voice, obviously interrupted from his important work. “Not a last minute field trip, I hope.”

Peter chuckled, “No, no. No. Nothing like that. It’s a study group thing, actually – for a project, in the upcoming science fair.”

“Is that with Leeds?”

Despite knowing Tony meant no harm with his words, Peter still couldn’t shake the slightly downtrodden feeling in his chest. He needed to reply to Ned’s texts, but he just... hadn’t had the want to lately. “Ned went to New Jersey, remember?”

“Everything’s legal in New Jersey,” Tony muttered a casual reference, partly to himself, before he replied, “Anyway, what’s the problem, Pete?”

“Well.” Peter swallowed, disbelief he was actually going through with this. “I... I want to go?”

Tony paused in his responding, clearly considering the position—or so Peter thought, until the older Stark said, “And? Of course you can go.”

“I can? Really?” Peter blanked, having thought of a number of plausible reasons he could give as to why he should go—he hadn’t even considered the very obvious: Tony didn’t have a clue what ‘grounding’ actually meant, especially for an eighteen-year-old. What he should have probably done was more to set a strict curfew and limit Peter from certain enjoyable activities—like the lab and Spider-Manning, which he’d done... So...

Honestly, Peter was himself quite confused as to what grounding meant at his age. “OK, uh, thank you, I guess.”

“Was that all you needed? Pete, you’re eighteen—... I was a bit harsh on you, about that thing, and you’re right: I do have to trust you. You gotta understand, kid, I’m... at a bit of a loss with you, you know, because – honestly? – I’m learning to parent a teenager into an adult. It’s hard.” Tony’s fingers worked clammily over a keyboard, flexing his fingers across the personalised keys in his own language. Peter didn’t need to be there to see it; it was just something he pretty much knew the sound of. “But that’s that. So, of course you can go bambino.”

Peter took in a deep breath and replied, “Thanks, Dad.” His heart sunk, hearing the intercom click and knowing either FRIDAY or Tony had disabled their connection. He took no chances though, and only swore when he got to his room—and only into his pillow.

Some small part of him had wished for Tony to say ‘no’. Just a flat refusal—an absolute ‘out of the question’—but, instead, he’d gotten a ‘yes’, he’d gotten an ‘I trust you’.

Burying his head under his pillow, Peter curled his fists into his sheets and held back from exclaiming too loudly his hatred at himself for what he was doing in the morning.

To his left, his phone buzzed. He slapped his palm on it, pushed the pillows away, and glared at the text:

 **Harriet** : ready for tomorrow???

No.

No.

 _No_.

###### 

Or, apparently, yes.

Peter dragged himself over to the elevator the next day, holding his stacked backpack with pens, notepads and a few very breakable pencils. He’d tried, at breakfast, to look excited by the falsified trip, but the sickness had set in by now and he wasn’t completely sure he was ready to face Harry. Or Harley, for that matter.

Or Tony and Pepper, when he got back tonight.

“You got everything? Phone? Watch? Sunglasses? Uh... Whatever kids use these days to take notes?” Tony asked from where he’d taken up residence on the couch with Morgan to read her a story about a cat and a mouse who were the very best of friends. He bounced her, as she grappled with the book—investigating it, Tony always said, _a smart girl_ , he said.

“Yep,” Peter replied, slicking a hand through his hair. He’d not brushed it this morning, just shoved some product in and hoped it wasn’t noticeable he hadn’t really slept. “We still use notebooks.”

“Really?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow.

Peter nodded, and paraphrased Prof. Downey from R&D, “Physically writing the words helps memorisation.”

“Huh.” Tony took the book from Morgan before she tried to eat it. Smiling towards Peter, Tony asked, “So, when are you thinking you’ll be back?”

Shrugging, swallowing around the hardening lump in his throat, Peter chuckled through his words, “Probably tonight, honestly. We have a lot of ground to cover, might stop off for some food—is that OK?” It wasn’t a lie—they did have a lot of ground to physically cover, just in a car. And they’d probably get lunch, too.

“Sure. I topped your account up last night.” Tony flapped his wrist, turning his attention to his daughter. “Have a good day, kid.”

Peter nodded, turning to get into the waiting elevator.

“And remember the rule,” Tony called. Peter froze, heart in his throat, mouth dropping open—but then Tony said, “Don’t do anything I would do, and definitely don’t do anything I wouldn’t do – grey area, Pete. Stick to the grey area.”

Forcing a smile at the reference, as heavy tears budded in his eyes, Peter managed to speak without stuttering, “You can’t do that—that’s from _the before_.”

Tony broke into a scatter of laughter. “Just enjoy yourself, kid. Call if you need me.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

###### 

Peter skirted the streets with casual abandon, this way and that as he followed the abhorrent directions Harry Osborn had given him to the car parked a mile out from the Tower. Usually, Peter wouldn’t even feel a slight burn—but the guilt consuming him was making the distance difficult, and he paused several times in an attempt to talk himself out of it—but it was like Harry knew he’d stopped, and constantly texted whenever Peter looped around the block in an attempt to take himself home.

Still trying to talk himself out of going through with the plan, Peter rounded the corner and saw the now-familar Jag. Harry leant precariously against it, one leg hiked up, and his concentration taken by the small device in his hands. Tightening his hold on the backpack, Peter took in a breath and called out, “Hi, Harry.”

“Hey, you finally made it!” Harry returned, looking up from his phone. He thumbed it, and then popped it through the open window of the car, before making his way over to Peter. “Are you ready to go? You know the way, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter replied, taking in a few calming breaths as he strode across to the vehicle with Harry tailing him, striding directly behind. A spike of nervousness shot through Peter, turning his head as he opened the door to the passenger seat. He gave Harry a light, dismissive smile. Thankfully, it worked.

“Why’d you bring such a big bag?” asked Harry with a put-offish voice, having obviously not seen anything wrong with his close proximity. He rounded the car all the same to open the driver’s side.

Peter shrugged, dropping into the seat. “I told a lie. Had to make sure I followed through with it.”

“Peter Stark lying? You see something new every day,” Harry laughed, sliding into the front seat. He picked up his phone and tapped it a few times, and then held it across to Peter. “GPS. Put the directions in, and let’s go.”

“You don’t trust me to tell you to go left at the right time?”

Harry snorted at Peter’s lame attempt at humour. “It’s just backup. I like to be prepared for everything.” He turned the key, putting the car into drive immediately. He began to reverse out of the parking space. “I know my way out the city, though—You just get it powered up, and I’ll get us through the traffic.”

“Tinted windows?” Peter absentmindedly asked as he dragged his finger across Harry’s phone. It was years since he’d used a phone that wasn’t a Stark product, and he could definitely feel the difference: Harry’s phone, while fast, just wasn’t fast enough for him, and he double-pressed nearly everything without meaning to—including the Home Button.

“Of course the windows are tinted; the Osborns are billionaires, you know,” Harry replied feverishly, pulling into New York’s traffic. “Upstate, right?”

“Yeah, upstate,” Peter murmured, nodding, as the home-screen came up. He swore, pulling up a display to quickly bring him back to the GPS, when he noticed a Find My Phone app had recently been used. With a sweeping glance across to Harry, Peter thumbed it.

Maybe he should have known what he was going to find, but it still made his heart beat a little too fast at seeing **PETER** was the latest in Harry’s log—which had to mean every time Peter had rounded on a block, Harry _had been tracking him_ , and sent him those pressuring texts purposefully. It hadn’t been a stroke of luck: Harry had known.

 _Holy shit_. Peter bit down on his lip and slid another glance across to him, wetting his lips as Harry drove them through traffic reasonably, overtaking a few cars here and there with a burst of speed, but he seemed an otherwise reasonable driver—not as good as Happy, though.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Peter brought the GPS back up and input the Compound’s address, checking the automatic delete function was turned on before he did. “Done.”

“Took you a while there, Pete,” Harry replied almost immediately, a deep chuckle unsettling a cough from his throat. “Pardon me—All right, so, am I going the right way?”

“Absolutely,” Peter replied, sitting a little primly in his seat, with his backpack nestled between his feet. “Thanks for driving me up there, Harry.”

“Hey, no problem. It’ll be fun.” Harry removed one hand from the wheel, reaching across to settle it carefully on Peter’s shoulder. Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, Harry smiled at him smarmily and said too close for comfort, “What are friends for, eh?”

Peter pressed his lips into a line, trying not to look alarmed. It still, as always, looked like he was holding a frog in his mouth, though.

The drive up was almost a non-event. They stopped somewhere in the sticks, taking a detour to an old truck-stop where they disguised themselves briefly with hats and sunglasses, and pretended to be kids on a road-trip. The woman behind the counter gave them a glance over before serving up their food, muttering, “Bit young, ain’t ya? School’s started.”

“We’re taking a year off,” Harry lied smoothly, his smile stretched to a point. “Exploring the world before we park our asses behind desks.”

They moved on quick, at Peter’s insistence, after nervously watching the TV in the corner. The local news was reporting on nothing important—but then the BREAKING NEWS sign flashed across the screen and he leapt halfway to the ceiling, coming down from his stress high when he saw it was just a typhoon making ground somewhere in India. While a tragedy, it wasn’t too important to him right now.

“You’re jumpy,” Harry remarked when they’d gotten back on the road. “I’m sure your father won’t be too pissed, Pete; he must understand you’re worried about Harls, right?”

“Uh...” Peter pursed his lips, unsure about the sudden use of Harley’s nickname from Harry. Peter had never used it around him and, despite the familiarity it brought, it also gave Peter a sudden headache. Spending time with Harry at school was all right, and during the car incident with his father Peter had even felt sorry for him—but them alone together? In the middle of nowhere? Taking the back-roads became Harry didn’t like the highways?

It screamed _bad news_. What the hell was he doing?

Peter massaged his temples, moving his stare briefly to Harry’s lap—where he’d shoved his phone, citing the overhanging sun for not wanting it on the stand. What had Ned said? About a... girl? Harry’s girlfriend? Shit. Why hadn’t he looked that up? Asking would be suspicious. “Uh, yeah—I’m just worried,” Peter replied, realising too late he hadn’t answered Harry’s question. Dammit.

“Did you sleep last night?” Harry asked, his voice downer and flirting with concern. “You look tired, Pete. Why don’t you put the chair back and relax? It’ll be another hour yet—probably more.”

“I’m good—I mean, I didn’t sleep that well, but, but I’m good.” Peter forced a smile, his stomach in knots.

Harry gave him a look and frowned. “I think you should have a nap, Pete.” His lips turned upwards into that smile—the one that reminded Peter of Norman. He shivered. “Really, you’re shaking. I can put on the Lullaby Station.” He reached across to the stereo and began fiddling, trying to find the right station as he drove the dirt tracks along farmland and pasture.

“I’m good-”

Harry slammed his foot on the brake, prompting a cloud of dust. Thankfully (or not), they’d had no one behind them in at least five miles. “Just put the seat back, Peter.”

“Harry-” Peter gasped, inhaling a stunted breath when Harry’s fist thumped on to his chest, forcing him back against the seat. Usually, it wouldn’t have fazed Peter at all—but he was jittery, on the edge, feeling nervous and uncontrolled by the recent developments. _Shit!_ he thought, swallowing visibly, as Harry’s dark eyes turned on him.

“C’mon, Pete,” Harry drawled, his accent deepening with an absurd chuckle for their circumstances. “It’s not like I’m gonna _do anything to you_! I’m straight, dipshit.” He grinned, removing his hand – seeing no obvious reason why Peter should have reacted like that – and reached down to take Peter’s backpack from between his feet, chucking it into the back of the car. “Look, now you can stretch out your legs—Do you have a headache? I have your pills.”

Peter slowly reclined the chair, just a bit, and inhaled. “I’m good. My head’s fine—I... I’m just tired. Uh, so, hey, I think I will have that rest.”

“Great! Lullaby Station, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, biting the inside of his mouth as he turned away from Harry and shut his eyes, “Sounds great...”

###### 

“Hey, Peter! Wake up! We’re here!”

Peter woke with a start and a curse, having never actually meant to fall asleep—but that damned Lullaby Station! He should have asked for the KISS Station and made up some excuse about falling asleep to Tony’s music. _Dam_ mit.

He sat up, putting his seat into the proper position, and ducked a hand into his pocket. With a start, he said, “Wait, my phone-”

“Here.” Harry held out the device. “It fell out of your pocket. I was worried you’d roll on to it, or it would fall under your foot or something. I know your father’s the head of the company, but it might be awkward to explain how you broke your phone.” He threw it casually into Peter’s lap, collecting a yawn in his palm. “We arrived, by the way.”

Peter raised his eyes to the big gates and said, “I’ll get out and ask FRIDAY to buzz us in.” Usually, she’d have opened automatically for him—she didn’t recognise the car, obviously. He pocketed his phone, opened his door and stepped out, walking up to the comms station at the side of the road. Pausing as he pressed the button, Peter realised he’d only once before had to do this—back before he had auto-permission to enter, back before... Thanos. “Hey, FRI.”

“Hello, Peter,” came FRIDAY’s cheerful voice. She held the pause before asking, “What are you doing at the Compound? Does Boss know you’re here?”

Shit. He thought Compound-FRI and Tower-FRI were different? Hadn’t Tony mentioned that once? Didn’t he say it would be too much coding? “Uh, yeah—yes, he knows, FRI.”

She didn’t sound convinced. “OK, Peter. Who is with you? The licence plates are not in my system.”

“Oh, it’s my- my friend. Don’t worry, FRIDAY; he’s with me.” When the gates did not open like he was used to, Peter pressed the button and asked her to open them again.

“I am currently contacting Captain Rogers,” said FRIDAY, nitpicking her commands with a fine-toothed comb. “Unfortunately, the Compound is not accepting unauthorised visitors at this time by order of the Captain.”

Peter blinked several times and said, “But, FRI-” The sound of a car door opening caused Peter to whip around and he called, “Stay in the car, Harry.” _I’ve got this_. They’d come too far to back out, now. Peter watched the camera idly rotate, as if to capture Harry and, smiling some, Peter moved with it.

“ _Hey, Peter. Is Tony with you?_ ”

Peter jumped at the harsh accent funnelling from the comms, directly realising Steve was the one replying. There were no two ways about it: He did not sound friendly. “Steve! Uh, Mr. Rogers, I mean—uh, I mean—I mean... Is-is Harley OK?” He completely avoided Steve’s question, straining his lips into a frown.

The line dropped a moment, to Peter’s disappointment, and then: “ _Hi, Peter_.”

 _Harley_. It was Harley. Harley was speaking—and he sounded—he sounded _OK_.

“Harley! Oh, my God! Than-thank goodness! How are you? Tony hasn’t – Tony’s not told me anything, and Doctor Strange is acting really weird but I know he’s seen you and _finally_ I managed to get up here with Harry’s help and, and oh my God I- I just... Harley! You’re OK!” Peter gasped, his words stringing together clumsily and without any proper input from his brain—but what was new?

Harley’s chuckle came through the comms, and Peter could swear he could see him—the old him—the smiling, grinning him. “ _Define ‘OK’, Peter_.” Harley breathed in and out deeply, rattling their line, and then repeated Steve’s inquiry, “ _Is... Tony with you?_ ”

“Tony? No,” Peter replied, swallowing, trying to remember not to look so pensive in the camera’s eye. “Dad’s in New York.”

“ _Does he know you’re here, Peter?_ ” Rhodey’s voice came through the comms, passing judgement vocally.

“Uh,” Peter skirted his eyes to the left, to Harry, and saw him give a thumbs up. “Uh... Funny question – uh. Well. It’s Saturday, and...” There was no point in lying; not to them. “He doesn’t know—but that’s why Harry’s here! He drove me.” _Mental. He drove me mental_. He gestured toward the car, hoping his smile didn’t look as forced as it felt. His mood dampened suddenly, a sick realisation settling in his stomach. “Ple-please, Uncle Rhodey, please don’t... Don’t tell him—don’t tell dad.”

“ _I’m not,_ ” Rhodey replied, clearing his throat. “ _Who’s Harry?_ ”

“He’s a...” Peter faltered, “A friend.” His voiced edged at the word, and he visibly swallowed around the lump in his throat, staring into the camera.

“ _We don’t work like that anymore, Peter,_ ” said Steve, exhaustion gripping his accent. “ _Who’s Harry?_ ”

The _be honest_ went unsaid, but not unheard.

Frowning, Peter replied with hasty, mild-mannered abandon. “He’s my friend – who is helping me... To get here because, because otherwise I couldn’t get here—Tony disallowed me from using the cars, so...” He fidgeted, glanced behind him. The car honked. Peter waved, but returned his attention to the camera a second later. “Please. I just want to see Harley...”

“ _Pete,_ ” Rhodey sighed. “ _We can’t let just anyone in. Who is Harry?_ ” The pressing insistence in his hard voice hinted at reasonability.

Just as Peter opened his mouth to reply, the audio shut off. He stared, dumbfounded, and slightly panicky. Behind him, Harry called out, “Are they letting us in?”

“I don’t know,” Peter replied, quieter, wringing his hands. To come all this way and have nothing to show for it...? Shit. And he’d wasted Harry’s time, too—but maybe Harry wouldn’t see it that way, considering he was hanging out with his ‘best friend’—the best friend whose phone he pick-pocketed, apparently.

Peter wasn’t clumsy with his phone; he couldn’t afford to be. He kept it in a zipped pocket, or his bag. Never in an open pocket where it could be snatched—he had the _Avengers’_ phone numbers, for God’s sake!

Not only was Peter having to realise there was something wrong with Harley, he also had to consider Harry Osborn. It was becoming increasingly obvious there was something... off about him, too. _I know how to pick them_... Peter breathed out through his nose and touched FRIDAY’s button again. “Hey? Uh, is anyone still there?”

The click of a lock startled Peter from his thoughts, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Harry shouted, “Pete! Hey, Pete! Is this your friend with – holy shit! You’re Captain America! Sir!” Harry saluted.

The gates slid open, just a bit, and allowed exit to two impressive figures. Peter stared from the one-way camera to them, catching Steve’s salute to Harry and his gruff, “At ease. Who are you?”

But all Peter was interested in, in that moment, was the other young man at his side. “Harley!” Stumbling away from the control panel, Peter ran into Harley’s outstretched arms and clung to him—to his large shoulders. Flexing his hands on them, Peter gaped as he stared up at the patchwork of skin adorning Harley’s face; the grey lines and ripped expanses of flesh around his neck. His hair, once shaggy but well-combed, had lengthened out a little more, curling at the tips from rough treatment—he looked, in truth, a little had Barnes had at the airport in Germany. The thought made Peter shiver, the old memory blackened and discoloured from repeated visitation.

Peter felt Harley’s arms awkwardly settle around him, and heard him exhale a long breath near his ear – along with his name: “Peter,” Harley practically whispered, soft, before he pulled away, but kept a tight hold on his wrists. “It’s nice to see you.”

“It’s been months!” Peter replied, shaking his head, as he stared at him – the new him – and felt small tears bud in the corners of his eyes. “I-I, I’m so sorry, Harley!”

Harley kept his expression neutral. “It has been,” he replied, his attention quickly straying from their reunion to Steve and Harry. “Who is he?” asked Harley, gesturing at Harry—who was talking with his hands more than his words, by the looks of it. “Just between us?”

Peter, while surprised by the chill in Harley’s voice, replied immediately, “Harry Osborn.” He saw no change in expression; maybe just the slanting of an eyebrow, but nothing more. Peter gave up a few more titbits of information, hoping Harley’s response would solidify Peter’s own fears. “We met at a fundraiser a few months ago and we go to the same college, too.”

“Norman Osborn’s son,” Harley replied knowledgeably, his eyes shifting to something darker as he stared across at them. “Can you trust him?” he asked, intrigue sticking against his firm words. “Should you trust him? After what...”

Peter started shaking his head again, but then paused. Harley wasn’t giving him anything except the cold shoulder, and bringing in anything more about Harry Osborn would only strengthen the divide already beginning to widen between them. Peter had come here, against his dad’s wishes, for a reason—and that reason was not Harry Osborn. “Not important,” Peter muttered, signalling for Harley’s attention and brushing off anything else about his driving companion. “What’s important is you, Harley.” God. They’d missed so much time, and Peter didn’t even know the full story and- “Are you OK? What happened? What did... What did they do? I mean, you’re up—of course you’re up; you’re Harley Keener. Nothing keeps you down for long—remember when you had the flu? I remember-”

“Peter.” Harley motioned at him, and moved to place a heavy, muscle-sewn hand on his shoulder. Peter looked at it. It felt... grounding; perhaps a little possessive. He wasn’t sure he minded. Harley looked into his eyes, stared, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“... Nothing’s wrong,” said Peter, dropping the requested eye contact. “It’s just—... No one will tell me anything. Dad locks himself in his lab with Doctor Strange and doesn’t let me in there anymore—I mean, I got in and I heard them talking about you and this _thing_ , but Ton—Dad found out and he _grounded_ me, Harley. I’m eighteen, not _eight_ , for God’s sake.” Humour and Harley had always worked well in the past, so Peter chuckled, smiled, tried to work his way through the conversation without making it seem serious.

Harley started to pat his arms, his shoulders—and Peter leant into the warmth. Despite the last gasps of heat in the air, the ride up had been cold and Harry had insisted on the windows staying open all through it, citing the old engine and the possibility of it overheating. Now, feeling the gradual warmth flood from Harley’s hands into his bare arms, Peter basked in it, comforted. He nearly missed when Harley asked, “What were they saying?”

“That something’s going to happen—something’s coming,” said Peter. He heard Steve behind them mutter something harsh, and he turned his head to see Harry was being instructed to get back into the car. _No. No, no – we can’t leave yet!_ Peter inhaled as Steve turned towards him and Harley, his mouth in a straight, unyielding line.

Harley must have noticed too. “Peter.” His warmth enveloped Peter again, brought into another hug of security. “What’s coming?” he asked into Peter’s ear, his breath curling around the cusp, “Did you hear?”

“Judas,” said Peter, biting down on his lower lip as the ground beneath them moved from Steve’s hard footsteps coming steadfast towards them. “An-and he said—he said there’s something wrong... That he needs...” He felt the Captain’s presence, and relented out of Harley’s hug to turn and face him. Attempting a smile, Peter said politely, “Hi, Mr. Rogers.”

“Peter,” replied Steve, raw and choked with uninhabited emotion. He crossed his broad arms. “You’re going to have to leave now, I’m sorry. Your _friend_ over there won’t tell me who he is, and that’s a no-go right now, son.”

Peter clenched his jaw, looking from Steve to Harley and back again, slowly starting to nod. Despite the venom in the exchange with Steve, Peter swished around to face Harley, took his hands for a last burst of warmth, and said, “I’m glad you’re OK... Tony does care, y’know. He’s just—this thing....”

“Peter.” Steve’s hand dropped on to Harley’s shoulder, pulling him away from Peter’s seeking hands. “If Tony cared, he would be here right now. He wouldn’t have left when Harley arrived, when we didn’t even know if Harley would make it.” Steve’s eyes searched Harley’s, before turning on Peter—the blue shading darkly. “It’s fine that he’s putting you first, Peter, but Harley didn’t deserve to be left out in the cold.”

“Bu—but, Mr. Rogers – if I might say...” Peter lowered his eyes, trying to find some long-forgotten courage when facing the Captain. “You don’t... You don’t know what you’re talking about—Dad, he’s—Dad’s—Something’s coming. Something’s happening – the world’s in danger, Mr. Rogers, and Tony’s doing everything he can to save it.” The rift in the air was clear as the line of Peter’s mouth hardened, and he thought back on everything he knew; everything he’d witnessed; everything Tony had told him and they’d discussed. His hate burnt hot against the back of his throat and he spit out, “Again.”

Steve set his jaw, standing tall. “Well, Tony’s welcome to come to us for help.” _Liar_. Steve gestured towards the Jag, and Peter went towards it, knowing better than to argue this time.

He slid into the passenger seat, rolling down the window with the press of a button. “Harley,” Peter called out, catching his strayed attention. “I hope you’ll come back to the Tower soon—I hope you all will, Mr. Rogers.”

“Peter,” said Steve, interrupting whatever Harley was about to say. “Can you take a message back to your father, please?”

“Sure, Mr. Rogers.” Fragile hope clung to Peter’s played heart, clenching his fingers against the seat.

Steve stalked towards the car and slowly leant himself into it. Peter gulped as the Captain loomed in, and felt Harry’s hand briefly come across to grab his, giving uncalled for support.

He should have expected the words, but-

“ _Fuck off_.”

Peter gaped at Steve, recoiling when Harry started up the car and automatically rolled up the window from his side. He put the car in reverse immediately, turning in his seat to look out the back to see where he was going. “What an absolute dick,” muttered Harry, his nose wrinkled. “And to think I looked up to him.” He brake-turned and the car screeched to a sudden halt, before taking off at speed down the track.

Confusion and hurt swam through Peter’s heart and, seconds into driving away, with a glance in the side-mirror at Harley’s forlorn silhouette being guided back through the gates, Peter collapsed into a fit of tears, hiccupping through his attempts to tell Harry to slow down. A pressure settled on his leg and through his sniffles he heard Harry tell him to calm down, that all would be fine, that Harley seemed all right. Of course Harley was all right, Peter wanted to spit, he had everyone looking out for him, whether Steve wanted to believe it or not.

Peter was the one who wasn’t all right. He shoved Harry’s hand off his leg again, the touch pressured and possessive on his thigh – and too much; too close; dangerous – his head rang out in alarm, his thoughts battering against the walls of his brain as he tried ever-so-hard to quell the sinking force inside of him.

Harry’s hand found him again, hot in the wrong way, and Peter breathed out forcefully to calm the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“Pete...” Harry said, shushing him, bringing the car to a stop at the edge of the track. He unbuckled and collected Peter in a hug, resting his head on his shoulder. “Hey—You’re OK! What Captain America did back there – man, I can’t believe it. My childhood’s ruined!”

Peter inhaled, the smell of Harry sticking to the top of his mouth: musty, sweaty, and unpleasant. It was nothing like anything he was used to, and it hit his Sense like a tidal wave: _UNSAFE_ , it screamed, and Peter managed to pry himself out of the capturing arms. “I-I’m sorry I dragged you out here,” Peter sniffed, choked up, even as his head clanged and clambered and told him in no uncertain terms to _get the hell away from Harry Osborn_.

“It’s fine, Pete,” Harry replied, settling back into his own seat. As he drove out from the side, he kept his seatbelt off and shrugged into the chair. “I’m sorry about what happened back there, man. Not all right.”

Taking in some steadying breaths, feeling a powerful burst of sickness pulsing through his stomach, Peter sat back into the seat with a loud, aching breath. He physically shivered when Harry downed the windows.

He felt for his phone, heard it vibrating with a call, and the sickness gathered in his gut more intensely than before and- “Harry. Harry, pull over—I’m-”

The car screeched to a stop and Peter yanked open the door, rushing across to the forest blanketing the edge of the road. After emptying his lunch, he dry-heaved into his sticky hand and shook visibly—everything slanting and going fuzzy and-and _wrong, not good, very not good. Bad_.

A few moments later, Harry appeared at his side. “Water,” he said, holding out a bottle. “Pills.” On a flat hand, as though finding a horse, Harry held out two small white pills.

Peter recognised them. His stomach gave another involuntary heave, shuddering away from Harry. “Jus-just the water,” Peter gasped, shaking as he rose to his feet, stumbling.

“No, Pete. You’re sick—God, you’re sicker than you were the other time!” Harry shook his head, gathering Peter from the ground. Uncapping the water, he held it out and Peter took it, drinking half in one go. “And now the pills,” Harry pressed.

“No,” Peter replied, pushing them away, as he felt Harry’s hand press more forcefully into his lower back. “No, I-I’m not taking the pills.”

“... _Pete_.” Harry’s voice dropped, becoming low and serious. “C’mon. Eat the pills, and then you can stretch out on the backseat, OK? Get some sleep – OK?”

“No-”

“It’s not a suggestion, Pete.” Harry glared, gripping Peter around the shoulders. He practically dragged him back to the car, shoved him against the side of it, and held out the pills. “You’re sick—but I’m going to take care of you; don’t worry.”

Peter’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Harry-” Harry’s hand smashed on to his mouth, forcing the pills down his throat. Peter choked as his head slammed back against the metal of the car, leaving an imprint, and gasped as the pills slid down his throat. Harry’s hold on him dropped, and he fell like a lead weight on to the dusty ground.

Eyes dark, piercing, Harry pulled open the back door of the car and said. “Get in, Peter. Let’s go home.”

Shaking, unable to summon anything except for a feeble grip on Harry’s coat, Peter dragged himself into the back of the car and lay down against the seats as the world started spinning. He closed his eyes, gripped his head, and a minute later everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Didn’t read the ending?_ Harry forces Peter to take the pills Doctor Otto Octavius && Norman gave him back in Chap. 4, and then tells Peter to get in the back seat where he promptly falls asleep.
> 
> Stay safe!


End file.
